The Way in Ocean: A Trilogy

By Leonard

A young boy sailed on board of a small drift netter to north, cold Norwegian and Greenland seas; he survived the vicious storms and got great discoveries. The Arctic and Barents Sea opened their secrets to him and to those brave and stubborn, who did not afraid to meet the challenge of cold, wind, ice, andwhite bears.

He went through Greenland, Labrador and Canadian-USA waters, Sable Island, Sargasso Sea with its enigmatic Bermuda Triangle, Mexico Gulf, Caribbean Sea, South Atlantic and Antarctic; mysterious events, discoveries and meetings with other people of this planet and touch with the heroic exploratory deeds of past. And then has been a final act of the way, the Arctic Tale, which witness that a human being cannot survive against the will of nature.

The stories and related events are true and factual with some permissible imagination and exaggeration e.g. if in the book the waves were 10m high, in reality the waves were 8-9m only, still in the range of storms and hurricanes He got all the way through himself, but still impersonated, at least for 30-40%, the other guys at ocean.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456788391

Leonard

Leonard Chepel was born in Ukraine; marine biologist-ichthyologist; PhD. Took part in research voyages throughout Arctic and Atlantic Ocean from Greenland-Labrador to Antarctica. Served an Executive Secretary of Northwest Atlantic Fisheries Organization (NAFO) in Halifax, NS, Canada, 1991-2002. Published professional articles in English and Russian.

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© 2011 by Leonard. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/22/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8837-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8838-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8839-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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Preface

PART ONE

Chapter I

Mohns Ridge

Chapter II

Barents Sea

Chapter III

Labrador

PART TWO

Chapter I

Sargasso—Rio

Chapter II

Rio Grande Rise

Chapter III

The Drake Passage

PART THREE

The Courage of Survival

E P I L O G U E

Illustrations

Great exploratory feat by those audaciuos, curious, and undaunted, who strived incessantly towards the utmost knowledge and perfection with their life-long goal-dream to reach into the wonders of the abyssal depths, to explore the blue vast domain of Atlantic ocean and survive the icy cold seas of Arctic and Antarctic.

To my Mother

Anna

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She is just 95

2010

Preface

My oceanic century of XX had gone as I retired from everything related to the ocean and its mysterious life in 2002. By a strange sign-omen or inadvertently it was the time of end of most prolific oceanic fishery research at time of the end of 2000 years of Pisces Epoch on this planet. Once, being out of my fishing epoch, I settled on this old tired dusty land and finally could see the different life, which I had not seen for a half of that gone century—a very simple moment of between the past and the future of billions busy noisy people, engaged in a vicious struggle for livelihoods, recognition and predominance. The paramount stakes of the struggle have always been their tense competitive lives… They did not know that there was other life on earth—strive for knowledge, discovery of nature and through it, the greatness and modesty of human soul.

In the middle of the last century, a small group of young researchers, marine biologists and oceanographers, get together in northern city of Murmansk of Russia. He came from south and joined up with the team, and sailed first time to the high Arctic domain, the Mohns Ridge, in 1963. It was a beginning of his many voyages into the boundless blue water world. Togeather with his seafaring friends he was destined to discover many fish resources and witness mysterious events in the high seas of Atlantic Ocean and in Arctic. The guys were united by great ideas to search and explore the ocean life under the umbrella of Northern Research Reconnaissance Fleet, North Search, in arctic city of Murmansk. They went to seas for six-eight months pursuing main explory tasks to satisfy insatiable appetites industrial fishing fleets, large factory freezing trawlers and mother ships digesting hundreds tons of fish a day. They, fishing scouts-researchers, were successful, passionate and happy wandering through enigmatic wilderness of Archipelago New Land, Spitzbergen, Greenland, Flemish-Cap, Davis Strait, Labrador Sea, Newfoundland banks, American shelf, South Georgia, Falkland Islands, Patagonia shelf and Antarctic islands.

The young guys would sail from Kola Bay into icy gray waves of the Barents Sea and further, into open remote seas towards unrestricted freedom. There, in the unfathomable water space, the young explorers would get to realise that before them was unexplored world and braved themselves against the treacherous, unexpected, and challenging. They were my friends, colleagues of that unforgettable past of our youth, tested by storming winds of Arctic seas under the mysterious twinkle of Polar Star, illuminated by the golden flashes of Aurora Borealis, and surviving the roaring deadly squall of the 50-60-s of the southern latitudes. He got into a merciless storm on the same exactly water trail, which the great Antarctica explorer, Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton, sailed almost a half of century before them, in 1916, when that time he, my hero, wrote: " . . . we saw the Lord . . . we reached the very bottom of a naked humane soul . . ."

My dreams of that gone oceanic life persisted all the time at night and often at the daytime… I saw such wonderful visions of past—huge waves of the Greenland Sea and Drake Passage, snowy mountains of Arctic and Antarctic islands, ice fields that blocked our passage at Coronation Island of South Orkney Archipelago, vicious sand-snow storm at the Royal Bay of South Georgia Island, and the Green Beam in Labrador Sea… then, mortal drift on a small rescue raft across Barents Sea and tragic loss with last words of the best friend:

"What had been is what will be,

What has been done is what will be done . . ."

My dreams and mind worked together for a purpose and once it came in one unified picture-story about that past, still exciting and moving by the roaring sounds of the waves, crushing ice and that special flavour of tropical nights with her soft like whisper of the palm leaves voice—Usted baila la Samba . . . lleveme al oceano . . . carry me to ocean. There was my and his way in ocean. And then, I thought that I cannot keep and hide all these in my memory only and have to tell about it to other people, and they would know it and could reach their greatness and see beyond this simple world of daily strive-scuffle with all of insignificant trifle things. Wherefore, I took my laptop and arrived to, immersed in my moment of confession…

This is my and my seafaring friends story about life-long way in ocean.

Leonard

2011

PART ONE

NORTH

Chapter I

Mohns Ridge

Flight to north—Arctic city—Michael-stocker—Captain George—The herring scout—A man of perfect memory—Hotel—Departure to ocean—Nordkapp—The Ridge—Arctic oases—Polar front—Icelandic herring—Net shaker—Friends researchers—Search—scientific advice—Herring fleet—Geothermal—Mother ship Memory of Lenin—Sea girls—On the raft—SRT East—"Pomors—Sea people"—Eternal Moment of Creation—Cabin in the forecastle—Pig boots—Greenland Sea—USA Aircraft carrier—The STORM—The wave of Ernest Shackleton—Captain’s story—Discovery—Icelandic volcano—Through the fiords of Lofoten—Saida Bay—The Land.

On May 10, 1963 a small propeller-driven aircraft Il-12 departed the airport Pulkovo of Leningrad city of Soviet Union. This type of aircraft has been for many years the basic design for inter-regional transportation in this huge country of twenty-two million square kilometers or the size of three United States and the distance from east to west of 11,000 kilometers. This exactly flying craft was some kind of its smaller modification with15 sits only, positioned in two rows each at port and starboard. He knew the plane was not really good for a long distance flight and even for a short distance because doubtful safety reputation. But there were no other options due to complete absence of any alternative transportation to reach in one day the most distant arctic city of this country, Murmansk; the time was essence for a young simply dressed and looked like quite destitute fellow. He really was not too spoiled by living opulence, but at the moment, had a fortune of those days—25 rubles in his pocket, from which 9.5 rubles should be spend for a ticket in a tough competition with other hundred contenders for a couple of sits in a noisy frustrated line at the billet counter. He was extremely lucky that the last ticket went to his possession against of all odds.

The so-called airport terminal shed was overfilled by angry frustrated people scattered around on dirty floors and benches; the whole country was in a competition everywhere—at smoky-sooty factories, enthusiastic destitute collective farms, and so called store-shops void of basic goods. Such a competitive mood has been familiar and omnipresent through of all 11,000 km from Baltic Sea to Pacific Ocean, and 5000km from Polar Ocean to Middle Asia. Before departure, he got, a meat-cutlet with the navy macaroni, the type of spaghetti-tubes with grinded meat and plus a glass of tea, everything just at the price of 50 kopeks. The flight expected arduous over Karelia taiga and snowy tundra of Kolskiy Peninsula at low latitude to avoid the perilous dangerous freezing of the plane functional pipes. At the speed of 330km/hour and the total flying distance of 1350km, they were doomed to dangle treacherously in the air at least four hours. This was a maximum possible flying distance for the plane, and if any bad weather would interfere with the speed of flight, it would surely be almost a tragic verdict with the realistic chance to crash-land in the wild snowy taiga of Karelia or Kolskiy tundra.

A group of commuters carrying their bags across a half-snowy field came to the plane. His sit made of genuine leather was #7 on the starboard, right near a small yellowish-fogy Plexiglas window showing its cracking age. This seat was a symbolic omen-sign for the young passenger—it was his lucky number. Why? He could not even clearly explain to himself, just he likes it and remembers that his grandmother liked this number, as she often would say:

Remember my grand son that this world was created in seven parts of time and space; they are around you, through even smooth level-space to east, west, north, and south, and then, in vertical upright and down—the heaven, earth and chasm; and all seven proportions-odules of Universe are united by the Lord’s Almighty power and time keeping us inside and alive… beyond those no life would be available… you’re still young, but you’ll understand it later… it will come…

He, as a boy, really did not understand the grand mom’s deep philosophy and what will come, but now he had his ideas and believed in the magic seven. So, this was his sit #7, and he knew that everything would be nice in his life-destiny voyage into a barely known world.

The plane was heating the engines, and a steel-aluminum body of the craft was roaring, shaking, trembling and jumping on the ground for extended time as the pilots were resolute to verify and prove by their skill that this looked like non-flying apparatus could really ascend into the air and then fly over that enormous distance of a treacherous arctic route. At one moment, the movement against the ground became evident, and the substantially invigorated plane turned less noisy moving first hesitantly and then recklessly on the bumps of traditional in this country military style of the runways, paved by large reinforced concrete blocks with wide non-sealed cracks in between. In next ten minutes after a second round of the heating procedure before the take-off, the plane proved to be a more or less able craft, running happy escape-goat jumps on the blocks and after last strong stumble at, it was propelled up by violent jerks, into the misty air above the legendary city of Leningrad, former tsar Peter’s city—St. Petersburg.

That time, the cities of the whole country did not have those grey dirty horizons typical for the most polluted metropolitans at the end of XX century and today. In 60-70-s of last century, the city of Leningrad had landed 50 times less planes with 10 times less powerful engines; so the pollutions had been 500 times less than 30-40 years later on. The snow on the ground has already gone and air was almost unblemished; the sun above the horizon was smiling by a pristine freshness of a washed-up red-yellow apple. Regardless of evening hours, the sun was floating high in the sky at this latitude of 59-degrees north; the city was approaching its best season of an enamored romantic soul time—white nights. For centuries, it has been a very special summer spell of translucent mystic night hours in the city of hundred channels, bridges and squares featured with the statues of the gone historic time of Peter the Great and Katherine the Second. The Russian genius poet, Alexander Pushkin was enchanted in his time by St. Petersburg’s white nights as many other gentlemen and ladies of artistic world; they all had been visiting St. Petersburg’s summer parks and Neva River embracement two centuries ago.

After thirty minutes of flight, the plane has reached a ceiling-corridor and a stewardess brought cold water in a jar and so called sucking candies, similar to lollipops without sticks, called in Russia—ledentsy-coldies or podushechki-pillows, filled with fruit jam. No any other service was expected up to Murmansk for all four hours flight, except somebody would wish more water. There were no complaints; the passengers knew well that they should be prudent enough to store their own sandwiches. And it was fare and square for such a ticket price. For drink, they use ice cream paper cups, which most passengers would not discard but took happily in their possession; it was a good bargain for non-service and the caps were on the list of deficit items in the country, as everything other at value of five kopeks-cents and more.

His dinner cutlet taken with a large portion of navy macaroni before the flight was timely and would keep him reasonably satisfied up to the destination. The landscape below was boring monotonous—all white-evergreen forest; the tundra snow would disappear much later, in next one-two months. The best thing for him would be to use this opportunity and get a solid nap, of which he was depriving last couple of days. The way to Leningrad from Kaliningrad, former Prussian city presently soviet Second World War trophy, he traveled in a so-called train general stinky couch—obschiy wagon, which did have 50 seats for 150 passengers; it was filled-up like a commuter bus in rush hours. The people were packed like canned sardines; he was on the feet almost all 850km and twelve hours. But there was major important benefit—it was almost free of charge, except one ruble bribe to the conductor. He had to watch his available sparse funds very carefully and prudently for all livelihoods—food, transportation, and lodging; no any cloths were expected to get soon. And at present stage he was satisfied that after 1 ruble for the train, then 9.5 rubles for the plane and 0.5 rubles for the cutlet, he had almost a fortune of 14 rubles left to meet the utmost challenge at the Arctic desolation.

His thoughts descended into the lazy-retarded mist and next moment he was embraced by the trance of subconscious hazy vision of the past. He has not seen the mother for two years and worried about her wellbeing. The mother has always been his teacher, friend, and a strict supervisor; she was keeping in her delicate hands but very strong will his future and destiny, as she would think. However, for some time he was not happy with what he would have to do in a small world among nice fields, trees, rivers and flowers. A strange distant call of something remote, unknown, huge and powerful was appealing to him more and more in dreams and at nights and days; he was dreaming about a larger world full of surprises, mystery, which would generate more excitement in this stale-boring and ordinary world around him. The mother first had asked the son when saw his discontent with his quiet life:

Tell me, my son, what worries you in this nice peaceful land with these clean rivers and orchards around, like in paradise?

Mom, this because it’s so nice and quiet… like paradise…

Son, this is a wonderful life here… we were dreaming about many years ago… and got it

He knew exactly what the mother meant speaking about dreams of a quiet life. Her generation had endured and suffered through the past bloody times of the October revolution and its deadly aftermath in this country; she had witnessed the destruction of the whole society. Now she was content with this finally tranquil, indistinct rural life, which after dreadful years was for many a retreat into oblivion to heal the wounds in dormant sleepy life.

Mom, sorry, but I do not feel happy here…

Do you know exactly what the place would fit to make you happy, son?

No… not yet… I’m still thinking about it… but I feel it is very far from here… it is a very remote call… I have to search…

But you should know and not only feel… the time is flying so fast… think fast… because the time is flying fast… I’m forty-five already and did not see any good life, except that time of my happy childhood with parents…

He knew that his mother Anna came from a hard working family, which was rich before the revolution; Bolsheviks destroyed the family only because their hard decent work, because they regarded them as kulaks. The mother was slim, tender lady with large blue-grey eyes and curly black hair; she was looking more like 30 years young, strong energetic without any visible traces of aging; she endured the harshest life the human kind has ever experienced but had a strong hereditary line in her blood and soul. He was very much proud of the mother; in any case she would understand him and bless for the road of his dream.

I know Mother… That’s why I wish to go and make your life better… There is no future here, because the past is only pain for you… and it will be always painful here… If you are against of my going, I will stay with you…

No son, if your heart and thoughts are not here, you anyway would not be with me.

But I could change and subdue my feelings…

No, son… mothers feel their kids` souls, not bodies… I gave you the soul from my soul and my blood… When you decide, tell me… and you may go…

He decided in three days and came to mother:

Mom, I want to go north… to explore a new world… the ocean…

If you ready for this, you have to go… but you should be ready for very difficult tests for the will and body… if you were ready… ?

Yes, Mother, I’m ready… I’ll persevere because you gave me your soul and blood, which is life for humans… you taught me it…

Then you shall go… and remember that you were born from our hereditary line of centennial longevity of your body on this planet… and you have time… but do not waste your time, keep steady and strong on your track, hear the call of your heart and righteous mind and you’ll be happy and succeed

He knew exactly what she meant under the righteous mind—the mother did not commit any sins in her honest life, and her soul and mind were clean unblemished; she believed in those Jesus Christ words in his commandment:

 . . . That you love one another as I loved you… If you belong to the world, the world would love you as its own… Jn 15:12, 18

She has always been optimistic with her love and belief in life and her blood and soul have been preserved spotless; that brought her to the centenarian life similar to her ancestors. The ocean of injustice of the strange ruthless revolution was storming around in this historically destitute land, but she believed only in righteous things. So, the mother with a sad realization of separation but with the great love let him go to his still unknown remote destination and did not dissuade but encourage:

If you need me, son, just think about me and I will appear before you in your dreams, I will support you and give you strength to survive and keep going through all your way; but preserve your heart clean from hatred and remember that you belong to the Lord’s world…

I’ll remember it all time, Mother; forgive me for leaving you alone… I’ll come back to you…

The Lord blesses you, my son!

Now, this plane was carrying the young man towards the new life-destination; he needed mother’s advice to ask if he did the right thing to go further, to extreme towards his still vague imaginative place. And she came. He saw her again at an open field of that warm country, far to south—in the midst of green meadow under high blue sky filled with the bright sunshine. She was right there, not far from him suspended over the field and slowly moving, rather flying towards him with extended hands and her soft clear voice, which would remain the same unchanged for hundred years, was asking:

What worries you, my son and where are you… I cannot see from here… you are moving farther away from me… I see a very hard but honest road for you… ?

I’m on a plane, Mom, flying further north… there is the end of all northern lands

So, is that what you want… to reach the edge and the summit of your dreams… ?

I think so, Mother, but I’m confused… if this is the right way for me to go?

Yes, my son, it is, because this is the road of no return to former life and you’ll go all the way—this will be your Way in the Ocean. And when you come over there, please remember me, this memory would keep you safe in that unsafe world, but you were, probably, born for this… The call of your soul is my call… There, on the north had been your grandfather long ago… it’s his call to you to come and gratify him with your destiny… Stay firm and safe on your chosen path…

Thank-you, Mother, I will… Give me your hand…

He extended the right hand towards approaching in the air mother’s silhouette with extended hands towards him and felt the soft touch and mother’s voice:

I bless you, my dearest son!

And at this moment, he awoke from the absolutely different voice of the stewardess, who was touching his shoulder asking to wake-up:

Young man, you almost knocked out the tray from my hands—Complained the stewardess carrying her humble tray with water in people’s valuable paper cups for thirsty passengers.

I apologize, lassie… I had a dream…

Looking at the girl, he was still smiling from the wonderful vision and communication with the mother. Every time after such dreams, he felt an influx of new energy in his body, ho doubt transferred at the distance from his mother; she gave him extra stamina that would be so essential when he will descend into a new world.

The plane was flying over snowy tundra plains; from the horizon to horizon, there were only white hills-sopkas, frozen lakes and rare forest lines in gorges and between the hills—the white frozen nothingness without any visible signs of life. But it was wrong impression; and he saw abruptly a real picture-life of struggle for survival. Ahead, on the course of the flight, a large herd of deer was running from a large wolf pack. The altitude of flight was no more than 500m, and the chase-run were panoramic visible, even more impressive than it would be on a movie screen; no movie would show and reflect such realistic scenery. The wolves were behind 150-200m, and could not gain the distance fast due to the melting snow; it was evident and clear discernible from the air, when wolves would stuck-plunge on melting spots and tried to free from deep snow traps. But it was not helpful for the deer bunch as well; they jumped, fell and worked by their long legs with hectic rush; they felt behind the chasing death. Strongest animals run already far ahead, and they were safe as behind them run week and probably not well fed because deep snow females and one year old youngsters. In this death or life-threatening situation, the ranks were broken and older stronger stags would not turn back to defend younger. The herd reached a top of snowy hill-sopky and rushed down with wolves on the trail no more than 100m; it was a northern slope with hard top snow crust, and dear run very fast down leaving wolves far behind. Exactly this time, the plane was flying over that crest of the hill, and the panorama of the chase was exceptionally clear. The drama happened at the foot of the hill, at which deer, probably, struck a dip raving-gorge; here the dear instinct betrayed them, the snow was deep and did not support the bodies of heavy animals. Now light bodies of wolves had advantage fully compensating their owners for the tenacity of exhausting run through tundra. The hill was receding quickly far behind, and he saw that the predators pack jumped at several animals, probably youngest, and the feast began; there was death, which nobody could prevent; the death of one to give the life for the other.

The city met the stranger by high snow piles, nonetheless, by moderate temperature for springtime, probably around—1-3C. The best impression was created by sunshine; the edges of snow hills were already blackened under the influence of positive temperatures. The streams of water were running down hills creating slushy mess on roads. The so-called airport was just a small one story yellow-grey building-shack-barrack 12 x 10m with two rooms; the airfield was designated to land only light planes type of IL or less. However, not far from this field was a real military runway, which could take big heavy planes; all soviet dignitaries and party bosses would fly vie that facility. An old bus-commuter, patched by rusty spots, ran, jumped, and squeaked over the numerous pit holes splashing mixture of water-snow on pavements and pedestrians. The drive was as usual for those times service-culture and the invariable degree of the struggling civilization, which greatest advantage was the ticket price of only 30 kopeks for 25km road, from airport Murmashy to Murmansk, and he did not mind that nasty but cheap ride, not many people of this country would have better transportation. Finally on the approaches to the city he can see the Kolskiy Bay and Murmansk port in misty clouds-smoke from many fishing vessels and port facilities.

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Fishing Port Murmansk; 1963

In time when he came to a center of the city, the working hours were over and the Research Herring Fleet Office, recommended for employment by his friends in Kaliningrad, was closed for the day. The sun came close to the horizon and that nice warm sunshine changed too much colder indicators, of course, below zero. Several hotels at the center were full and he did not know what would be the lodging opportunities in some other parts of the city, if any. He asked one young guy on the street about such a possibility:

Hi—Privet! Do know any place to stay overnight?

Why, we do not have any overnights this time, just all sunny days…—The guy was a joker and looked like tipsy; it would be better not to continue further conversation; and he turned away.

Sorry, pal,—He heard behind: I got too much today… just came from sea… you look like a stranger in this place?—The guy was sincere apologetic:

So, you should try down there, on the railway near port at several boiler rooms… This night-day is expected cold, probably—10C, and you are not dressed for such conditions… But do not go to the railway station, there is the militia, they could get you…

He thanked the pal and walked down street towards the port. At the first boiler station-room, near the Fishing Port, a young fellow looked at him very suspiciously and strongly recommended to go away and not loiter nearby or " . . . otherwise, I’ll call the militia . . ."—the guy threatened, as would be scared himself. He was surprised at such unfriendly reception without any reason, but was not discouraged and walked further along the railway. At the second station, close to the Merchant Port, an old man-stoker dressed in a coal-dirty overcoat took pity on the trembling stranger and invited him inside of a dark coaly room with a hot furnace in the left corner. The old man was dressed in a thin jacket that looked not completely fit for cold season here still; elongated pale face, long hair and light-blue eyes gave the impression of an aging actor but not a stocker. But most strange and inconsistent were the hands of the man with long pointed fingers and white without black coal spots which should be inevitable on the hands of every stoker as the best evidence of their black profession. The old chap was a unique handler of a boiler room that was designated to supply with the steam some vital railroad facilities. For the young man, it was first acquaintance with very special generous people of the north; these people were helping each other against of all odds of the adverse social system. The man gave him a piece of dark-grey bread with sausage called livernaya from the original name—liver; the sausage was made of liver or something close to it; the old man said:

" . . . You eat and you’ll be filled… all ate and were filled . . . Mt 14:20"

An aluminum cup of strong sweet tea was a crown of this exquisite supper for the hungry fellow; he ate this simple piece of bread and felt completely filled. The stoker was, probably, happy to have somebody to talk with expecting that the young visitor would stay awaken all night. The man spoke in a quiet soft voice like breathe of wind, and these words were unusual strange similar to the young man dreams; and he wished to see and feel these dreams. Exhausting travel for the last two days took its toll over the young homeless visitor, and he began to show its true intent right away after the supper; he was half-drowsy already. The man saw it and knew it:

You’d better, kid, take rest… Go to that farthest dark corner and stay quiet and do not snore because the militia visit us any time at night… Now they are checking every night because several guys on the death sentence escape from the maximum security prison near city of Kirovsk…

This story explained why the young guy-stoker at first boiler room, near the Fishing Port, was very suspicious when was asked for a place to stay overnight. In his shabby cloth after several nights on the road and accidental simple food, he looked probably like a man escaped from the soviet maximum-security institution. The young stranger did not blame that young fellow and only was wondering if he was looking like a culprit on the death row:

Do you think that I’m looking very suspicious… Like those escaped… ?

And very unusual strange was the reply by the old man:

"Everyone is on the road in this world . . . and in this big country… And you, young man, is on the road now… However…—The man did not finished—I really don’t not know how the other guys, would be killers, as they say, would look… But they are on their road too… Your appearance is not perfect… But everyone who is on the road would look slightly tired, not overfilled with the pleasantries of this life… Remember, son, it’s not the body that carriers the life mission, but the soul and only your soul would indicate your way and destiny, and only the Lord shell judge you, not other people…—The stocker revealed his unusual philosophy about human beings and their never-ending destiny to walk the road. It was great and almost pathetic— . . . everyone is on the road in this world…" Before the young visitor could apprehend and digest this philosophy, the man smiled and said:

It’s too late now and still early for you to understand it… the time will come… Good night and sleep without dreams!

Not even strong smell of the old dirty boiler room and hard floor, covered by a thing layer of dirty rags only, had prevented him from sound sleep all night without dreams; his sport bag with a couple of shirts, pants and a pare of shoos was used instead of pillow as the old man said:

Sorry, would you please excuse me; we do not have in this first class hotel pillows…

It was very good joke in the right time and in the right place; exactly what was needed for people to  . . . love this world… and each other…; no pillows were needed in such a case.

The morning came with sunshine again, and the Arctic sun was already high above the horizon, when the old stoker politely touched his shoulder:

Young man, wake-up please, its time for you to continue the way…—Again, it was the language not a stocker, but someone who read from the heaven books, far from this desolate world. First time he heard such unusual expressions by the simple stoker of the boiler-room; not many of millions educated people of this country would speak similar to this old guy. And first time in four days, he had such invigorated dreamless sleep, almost like in the childhood in the midst of orchard, under a large fifteen-year-old apricot tree, which he planted himself as a small child. The unlikely living environment of the boiler room has been for him similar to the cave of primeval human being—warm, quiet, safe and filled with mystifying energy that maintained his spirit high.

Subconscious feelings flicked through his mind that this was exactly the beginning of a new life from this room-cave. The old man near him with broad smile and an aluminum cup of sweet hot tea was his savior and guardian. He really was; the young traveler felt that everything should be nice from today and later on. He noticed that around his sleeping place was a large pile of split firewood, which the stoker used to start the fire; it was not there when he went to bed. The old man then explained that this was a precautionary decoration if the night militia would come to check the place; they came at midnight asking for strangers and even looked inside, but did not come in as the wise old man noticed them from the distance and made an old trick to let bad sulfurous smoke come from the furnace and fill the room. It worked for the case and the militia guys were reluctant to inspect the premises. The militia advised that the guys, would be escapees, were really dangerous and even crazy and not only bandits but, as well, political anti-soviets, despicable American spies. This information which supposed should appeal to all people to be watchful and fight the spies did opposite to this man, who lived long enough to remember soviet killing camps of 30-s and huge prison camp-tent on the railway square of Murmansk. The KGB-Militia called all these people enemy of the people, almost spies and even worse. The stoker now knew for sure that the escaped guys were just political honest brave people, prosecuted by the rulers and they would do no harm to anybody, except to the unjust regime, which feed the old and young people by liver sausage.

The man gave him again that tea cup and a sandwich of liver sausage and said:

This is what left from my ration, but my shift will be over in two hours… Take it, you would need more food than me… My name is Michael… just call me Michael…—Would it be the case that Michael thought that this young guy was political? Who knows? But his behavior gave the impression that the old stocker knew more that he said particularly after the words:

Sorry, I have nothing more to give you for the road… I have nothing… but you have much more—your dream, your soul, and future…

Thank you Michael… You gave me most what I’ve needed for this time… I’ll never forget you kindness… and your words…

Michael just waved his hand as seemingly going to say never mind, but said nothing and softly pronounced almost like a pray and his farewell blessing as would be know that they will never meet again:

Bless him, my Lord! And carry him through all his long way in ocean…

How this old strange generous man knew about his dreams, the ocean? This soft voice and words reminded him what the mother said two years ago and then in many dreams would encourage him by the Lord’s blessings. But how would this man know almost everything about him, his secret dreams? This was that special communication between people, which keep them together and help them survive by the power of providence. He thought that this has been and will be the most powerful stimulus for perfection with the power of the blessing:

 . . . We know that all things work together for good… in all things the Lord works for good… Rom 8:28

He was deeply moved by a huge heart and wisdom of this barely known human being who gave him the only needed at the time and everything what this man had in the possession at the time, even his last piece of bread and meat:

Thank you, Michael, Spasibo! I’ll come to you sometime later…

He promised honestly to the noble human-stocker and exited the boiler room at 9 am turning right hand, across the railway road up-hill. Then looking back, he saw only the dark spot of the open door of the boiler-room; most likely Michael was sitting inside in his thin jacket to avoid cold air. One year later, he tried to find the man, but nobody would tell where this generous man was and nobody has ever heard about Michael, the old stoker. For the young man it was similar to a miracle from the haven that sent its messenger to help to survive the cold night of Arctic; the stoker-Michael with long white face and white intelligent fingers, who knew about his dream-ocean and cared about and preserved the young traveler for this.

From the beginning, this day was unbelievably successful for the young man. He crossed the railway and went up a steep hill to a wide street, wrecked by potholes, which was called Schmidt Street; turned right along the street to the intersection with Knipovich Street and then, turned left walking one block to a five story building—Polar Oceanographic Institute, PINRO. There was a site of the most prominent in the country office of the Herring Scouting-Research Group. His fellow students at the Kaliningrad Technical Institute of Fishing Industry recommended this office to him. He stepped over the doorsteps of the Institute, his threshold into that completely new life.

In the right wing of the building on the first floor was the room #5 with five tables and a captain at a large massive central table; he was a master mariner or as they called in this country—Capitan of a long voyage; he was captain George Shapovalov, old herring captain. Stocky guy with broad face and grey hair looked like a tired man, who exhausted a lot of his energy somewhere outside of his body; and it was clear where—in the ocean. At time, the young stranger would realize that the captain was that special individual who had never accustomed to the ocean because that rare individual ability or rather disability to adjust to seasickness. Nevertheless, George was one of the best captains of the northern herring fleet and a tough man to talk with. The first question was a reasonable one:

What are you doing here, young man?

I want to go to sea

"Do you like herring?

Why?

Do not ask me questions. It’s my priority here to ask you… so, do you like herring?

Yes, but…

If you say but, you do not like it… so, there is the door and you can go

"No… no but, I really like it and even know—it’s—Clupea harengus harengus Linneaus"—The newcomer undertook to save the situation, which did not look promising at the moment and almost disastrous to his plans. He strained the brain to extreme and dug the best knowledge about the herring from the institute lectures. Luckily, the last session they had was about of an ichthyology course regarding the pelagic species of Atlantic Ocean; herring there was the queen of all pelagic species and he knew about it a lot. After the perfect spelling out the Latin name of the queen, he began the excurse into the habitat:

A marine Atlantic species, most pelagic, occurring in shallow near shore waters and offshore from surface to depths of…

OK, it’s good, young man… I see that you like herring… Where are you from?—The captain said it with more friendly intonation which promised a hope for positive conclusion now.

I came from KTI—Kaliningrad Technical Institute, third grade… I met there Vasiliy Gentchev and Fedor Troyanovskiy… They recommended…

Well good… this is enough, young man…

And the young man thought—that’s it, he failed and had to go. Why would he name those names of two guys who spent most time at restaurants of Kaliningrad city instead of classes? So, the boss knew these restaurant lovers and such acquaintance was the worst reference—credentials possible. It was a really hard blow against the romantic expectations of the young man. He raised his eyes and looked on the boss, who was not angry at all, but almost laughing at him.

Well, well, young man, you meet really great herring scouts over there and their recommendation has only matter for me… We do not have any good vacancy now, but only technique-ichthyologist if you like it… Would you… ?

Never ever in his life he would experience such relief and joy, never in the whole life; like a man snatched off-under the falling French guillotine that cut only his hair in such a close shave.

I would…—He almost cried with barely hidden joy what did not escape from the captain’s attention:

Good, very good… have you ever been at sea, young man?

No, but I like the sea…—Was a very quick reply by the happy applicant for the exciting mariners life and it was, probably, too quick without giving the consideration that the captain and his judge before him did not like any buts. And the punishment did not wait for long:

This is very bad… the both—your but, again, and that you have never been at sea and like it with but . . . There is something wrong with your logic, young man… Explain yourself please…

At this point he was completely confused, without any idea how to explain it and became again depressed and scared that he missed his chance to see the ocean because one simple bad reply. The captain saw it clearly and decided to give his best lesson to an apprentice and a novice of the upcoming hash life in turbulent world of arctic seas:

Young man, if you were at sea, there should be no any buts, no any doubts to your mission and chosen way… That means that all your steps, actions and decisions should be calculated in advance without any after-buts, because if it comes to that, it would be only one result—your failure, which at the ocean would meant only one—the loss of your ship and people… You should never contradict to your actions and to the ocean and calculate each and your course without any buts… Just forget this word, because from the word comes everything… The word starts everything…

The young man had already heard this somewhere, but could not remember right away under the pressure of the moment, which was destined, to resolve or rather seal his fate for all his life. He have noticed that three guys at other tables were very attentive to the revelations of the boss, probably, not first time; but he noticed as well that they all were looking at him with smile and it meant that the things were not so bad as he thought at first. Some time later, they would tell the story about the boss and that fatalistic but:

It happened twenty years ago near the Bear Island on the west of the Barents Sea; George was a second mate and his relief from the watch was a fourth mate, who would usually stay on the bridge with a chief mate during the most difficult time from 4 to 8 am. Usually that time, trawlers would not take fourth mates to the crew on small trawlers; however due to the winter navigation, an extra navigator of a lower rank enforced the crews; but the chief mate did not come to the bridge to take shift. They were steaming southwest, to Kopytov Bank. George knew the bank very well and made the best calculation of the trawler course advising the junior navigator that they should clear the island over the northern shelf, 10-12 miles from shores. The mate looked on the chart and said almost like that:

 . . . But the south-west course would be for 30 miles close to the fishing ground….

After this remark, George advised strongly:

 . . . Please do not try to go south-west, which would be closer, but there were bad and not reliable radio signals for calculation of the coordinates and position… there are many low-sitting rocks…

At that time, the chief mate came to the bridge and his assistant reported, "The shift was taken in good order . . ." George finished briefing and went to his cabin; in the morning they would be in warm waters on the margin of Barents and Norwegian seas, where Atlantic winds bring fresh aromatic almost spring air from southwest. The fourth mate was, probably very keen to come faster to catch that fresh air and made a simple easy calculation around the island, southwest, to the northern part of Kopitov Bank. At 6 am, the trawler run on the rock and dreadful impact at full speed threw everybody from their sleeping banks. Out of twenty-eight crew, only four with George made on the rescued raft; they were almost on the border of the Norwegian Sea with Atlantic winds and warm air; after two days, they were be picked-up by a Norwegian trawler, which deliver them to Lofoten port of Hammerfest.

The briefing at the herring scouting office was going on and young man realized that this is for his benefit to get the lesson from this experienced master mariner, who geared towards next treacherous quiz:

Have you heard anything about seasickness?

Yes, I did… and I read about it in the voyage of the `Beagle` . . . Charles Darwin…

Now, at this information, the captain looked like confused:

What would it do with Mr. Darwin?—The captain stared on his interlocutor with suspicion seemingly waiting for a trick-deception from the young student.

Charles Darwin has been on the `Beagle` several years and could not accustom to his seasickness

I did not know this, young man… Do you know why was that?—The captain was asked extremely anxiously like the patient would ask the professor about life-saving medication. And exactly at this stage of the conversation, the young man realized that this game in his hands:

I think, because Mr. Darwin was one of the greatest geniuses in this world…—He would not even finish, when the captain picked-up that idea:

You are really a wise young man… Many great people would not tolerate the seasickness and Mr. Darwin was the great scientist and researcher, almost like us, here at the herring research headquarters… And we do great discoveries which would be waiting for you at the ocean… Welcome to the crew!—The captain was in a good mood and gave all orders to do employment paperwork, which would be finalized only after he would go through his medical check with the stamp seaworthy. This conversation left good memory for him and especially when later-on the guys in the room explained that George could not accustom to his seasickness during all his twenty-five years at sea; but he was the greatest herring captain anyway even with his permanent seasickness similar to the genius, Mr. Charles Darwin.

The guys at the office arranged the paper-authorization to the office of Murmanseld—the Murmansk Herring Fleet, which managed all scouting vessels, the crew and paid the salaries to the scouting-scientific staff under a full operational control of the herring research-scouting office and captain George. Such was the soviet system to hide or rather distort the designation of finance-funds seemingly allocated to the working class at sea and not to scientists-intelligences; the system of a self-fooled creature that was hiding his small head in the sand and could not see the reality and approaching lion. Anyway, he had to go there and arrange officially his position of a technique-ichthyologist at one of the scouting vessels with the basic salary of 110 rubles/month on the top of which would be regional northern coefficient of 1.4 and polar-arctic incentive of 10% every year to its maximum of 80% after eight years of work at sea. While at sea, where all food was free of charge, the regional coefficient would double and the crew would get voyage bonuses in case of successful scouting work. For fishermen, it was almost four-five times more than for land-based labor, south of the polar circle at 68 degree north.

At the office of the sea-based personnel on Tralovaya Street—Trawl Street, which was nearby of the second gate-entrance into Fishing Port, the line was about a hundred young guys and even several girls in their early twenties and could be even under. But the guys at the scouting office advised him to come to the door with the sign—for officers as he was one of them regardless of the name technical. That door was less busy with a couple of guys and, of course, not any women; all visitors were navigators of all ranks, except captains which would have access to the office without any restriction if they wish to come here. The main reception office for captains was in a main building of the chief of fleet and other fleet bureaucrats. One guy appeared from the office with the red confused face and looked like frustrated with something. The other guy near the door was probably his friend, who asked:

What’s wrong… did you get an attestation to your ship?

No, he said to get new medical commission instead…—The navigator, who was in the rank of second mate, was almost crying.

But, why? You did it only yesterday and everything was OK with you…—The friend was puzzled. What’s wrong with them… ?—The guy cut short his musing about them—behind that door was Mr. Peter Grokhotkov, the chief of all staff chiefs and a special legendary figure at the herring fleet and any fishing fleets around the world. Nobody would argue, protest, reject or even suspect Peter of any wrongdoing. The guy was perfect due to his perfect infallible memory, which could retain all names, events that he would witness and then restore at any given moment. And Peter was very tough almost mischievous at times, no doubt, having fun from it for his own reason and the brain exercise. It exactly happened this time with a young navigator who came from other fleet and wished to be employed at the more lucrative herring fleet. The navigator complained still bewildered about the confusing conversation with the chief of staff:

"He asked me only one question—Do you drink?—To which I replied No! After which the chief was upset and said: It’s very bad… we do not need unhealthy people at the herring fleet… every healthy man should drink…—The navigator was still puzzled about the further outcome of seemingly innocent discussion with the chief of all staff chiefs:

Then I was trying to correct this situation and explain that really I love to drink… Which upset him even more and he called me a liar and ordered to go again through a full medical commission with a psychologist and an alcohol test… Probably I should try to find a way around it… Would it be possible?—The guy was asking his friend, who was with the herring fleet for some time:

"No, my friend, there is no any way around it. Peter remembers everything and everybody and the next time you come to him, he would ask you exactly same questions and the right answer would be:

Yes, I drink but only three toasts: for the herring fleet, for the great Victory Day of 9th May and the third one—for those who at sea!

The guys left to make an appointment with next shift of the medical commission. So, this was the office at which he was waiting in line and very soon would face that mysterious joker—guy, Peter Grokhotkov, with his perfect memory. And at this point, he recalled one old story about a perfect memory:

`One wise Russian man had an argument with the wicked demon. The man insisted that:

—The human brain could be perfect;

But the demon argued that:

Not any human can possess a perfect memory;

The man said that he knows one old Eskimo-Indian hunter in Siberia who never forgot anything.

Finally, the man agreed to forfeit his soul to the demon if the old hunter ever forgets anything. So, they decided on this bet.

The demon went up to the hunter and asked:

Do you like fish?

Yes! Replied the hunter

The demon disappeared and waits until the man died and his soul would free from the body to take it in possession and thought this is his best chance; he descended to the Earth before the hunter and raising his hand gave a tribal salutation:

—How

Quick reply without any pause came:

—Fried"

This story was exactly about Peter Grokhotkov who never ever forgets anything.

He entered a small room with old table and chair; no papers, pens, pencils were on the table; these all would be inconsistent with the perfect memory. In the corner of the room at a small desk, was sitting a secretary taking notes and doing paperwork. Peter was a big but not thickset man with large slightly bulging grey eyes, long face and thinning light brown hair. The most prominent was his forehead extended like a pyramid cut at the top and, of course, his inquisitive focused eyes. After glancing into the paper from the PINRO office, Peter commented:

One more chemical guy…

I’m not chemic… I’m ichthyologist… marine biologist…

Peter waived his hand and said with friendly smile:

"What the difference… Not any dissimilarity… everything on this earth arrived from the chemistry… and return back to it"

It was a great scientific conclusion to explain the prime essence of this world in one sentence; it was worthy of a great scientific mind. This guy-chief was not ordinary guy at all, who should never waste his perfect memory at the Herring Fleet. Then Peter singed a paper, which the secretary gave him and said:

"Now you’ll show your best internal chemistry to medical nerds and if OK, we’ll send you to search of herring"—He came to the door when heard behind:

Hey, chemic, tell me do you drink?

As any chemic, Sir…

He smiled and crossed the threshold into his new special life with the Herring Fleet; went to the corridor to the general office, which handled all personal files of crews of the fleet. In a large room 15 x 15m, ten guys and two girls posiioned behind a long counter; the wall behind them was featured by a thousand of pigeon holes-files for all 5000 swimming personal of the Herring Fleet with the information, storred in the Peter’s perfect brain. The room was filled by 80-100 guys at least and the lines were moving fast; the clerks-inspectors behind the counter were working like computer devices; most likely that Peter chosen them all by his own method. He was quickly put on record and formally enlisted in the fleet personal, subject to the results of medical examination, which for a young boy was just a simple formality.

Same day, at 3 pm, he got a temporary pass to the territory of the Fishing Port and went through second entrance-gate to the medical commission building. It was located on the right hand from the entrance, just 200 meters further. The crowd was large and no division for deck hands or officers was observed. In a spacious anti-room were at least 50 people; some half dressed other already nude with all belongings in their hands. The naked line was moving steadily from one physician cabined to other; the doctors, guys and girls, were scrutinizing observing everything and especially very carefully the private parts. The venereal cabinet was positioned right opposite of the high wooden platforms of the Fish Combinat, which was permanently overcrowded with young and not so young women watching with enthusiasm and passion through unscreened windows the flow of stripped bodies—the nude procession of hundreds and thousands of young guys; it has been a complete disruption of the working schedule of fish girls. But nobody has paid any attention to this, and the guys in line were most concerned to get through as quick as possible and obtain that most desired stamp passed.

In the last cabinet-room of the medical commission, a young venereal doctor was extremely bureaucratic inspecting everything, even the cavities asking to open wider "your cheeks", at which request some young guys from remote Vologda villages would turn back to the doctor and pull their real cheeks by fingers as wide as possible. And these guys, while sitting near a young blushing nurse taking blood for syphilis test, were keeping by the both hands the private parts which were pushing up their strong fishermen’s hands with the enormous force from down up. Luckily, the syphilis-lues cabinet, as the guys called it, was the last and the guys would not go further with decisively enlarged sensitive organs; the management of the fleet and medicals knew very well the thoughts of young boys and their boiling hot blood.

In one hour from the start, the medical examination was done and he was stamped passed with the pulse at 65-70, blood pressure 115-65 and 40 pushes from the floor in one minute; the RV was not expected positive due to his virgin innocent style of life. The only question was:

Why, young man, you did not eat enough for a normal human weight? You lack almost 10kg of the normal body weight.

He replied simply somber and even without smile:

The lacks of weight because the lack of food… I kept my body and spirit clean…

The doctors smiled and thought that it was a joke; but not for him surviving the whole last year on 50 kopeks per day and carry-on his intensive study at the institute; the system did not provide any option and opportunity for the guy who decided to search for his dream in the ocean and it was his test; now he was very close to his dream.

Before the closure, he left the medical exam list with the sea-cadre office and went outside, to the Tralovaya Street. Only there he abruptly felt extreme weakness in the legs and the whole body; after the Michael’s liver sandwich he had nothing in his stomach at all and even forgot that should find the place to stay overnight. First thought to go left, along the railway, to find the boiler room and Michael he turned down right away; his last night savior probably not there and his position in this city from today has been completely legal—he was a scout-researcher of