The Text That Nature Renders

By Leonard Chepel

I looked through many events of my oceangoing past and sorted out these seven survival scenarios, in which the main characters ventured into the boundless scene of nature that to see and feel what one great man, Ernest Shacklton, confessed a long time ago: We had seen God in His splendors, heard the text that Nature renders1959 And eventually, it happened to most of them, my friends and colleagues, who became the heroes-actors of the stories, which I still perceive and clearly see in my vivid memory like it happened yesterday: the fledgling lonely marine on a raft, drifting on the high seas and fighting for his life; the tender lady, armed just with a primitive spear, battling with a dreadful beast to save the other people; the scouts miraculously coming alive out of hell of the Antarctica tempest in Royal Bay of South Georgia; the nonchalant mariners, enjoying the Arctic scenery and escaping a huge polar bear; the crew of a fishing trawler struggling for survival when trapped by hurricanes Debbie and Camille on the Grand Banks. The last two stories of Howling Wilderness and The Castaways of frozen Land are about the most remarkable survival in Siberia and on Arctic islands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546295341

Leonard Chepel

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 & books in English and Russian

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© 2018 Leonard Chepel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/24/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9535-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9534-1 (e)

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CONTENTS

Preface

I     On a Raft

II     Tamara

III   Royal Bay

IV   The Chase

V     The howling Wilderness

VI   The Grand Banks

VII   The Castaways of Frozen Land

Epilogue

                                       "God hath chosen

                                       The weak things

                                       Of the world

                                       To confound the things

                                       Which are mighty"

                                       (1Cor 1:27)

PREFACE

               "We had seen God in His splendors,

               Heard the text that Nature renders,

               We had reached the naked soul of man."

(Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage, 1959)

The first time I’ve learned this Ernest Shackleton’s confession in the beginning of my seagoing career, standing on a threshold of a new world together with other enthusiastic seagoing fellows. In that world, I met many remarkable personalities, daring against all the odds without looking for self-gratification. They all were united by the irresistible call to adventure in their hearts. And not only the ocean and seas tested them. Once I met Nick, a geologist, who narrated the most remarkable story of Howling Wilderness about his miraculous survival in the Siberian taiga and tundra. It struck me as the most heroic human struggle against adverse forces of wild nature, which were not less threatening than gigantic ocean waves or raging polar bears of the Arctic islands. This is why I don’t use an oceanic theme, but the Nick’s leitmotif in the picture on a frontal page of my book.

During the long-lasting journey along the oceanic path, I’ve never anticipated that my best gratification was still ahead when I, as a retired marine biologist, had started a new terrestrial life, recollecting and screening the events of the past in my memory. And maybe in the reminiscence of events, I had romanticized or even amplified the circumstances and characters. Nonetheless, I honestly strove to reveal in writings the best human virtues and courage in the face of danger when the chances of survival were pretty low. In the ill-matched contests, my book characters demonstrated their intrepidity and grace under duress. And only them, who could read and understand the text that nature renders, only those undaunted souls would have a chance to come through, preserving the best values of human dignity in the struggle for survival. This book is my belated confession and final valediction dedicated to my friends and teammates from bygone days.

Leonard

I

ON A RAFT

image2.jpg

Transfer by raft. Norwegian/Greenland seas. (1963)

My entry into that special world of the seas and oceans didn’t turn out as smoothly as I had expected and mentally prepared myself, sitting for some time in a science lab and reading all kinds of literature about the fish and fishery in the Atlantic Ocean and Arctic seas. It was my first assignment, as a newborn marine biologist, and with elevated enthusiasm I was picturing the first sea journey mostly in sunny-blue colors, as it should have been only such a romantic reflection in the heart and mind of a twenty-year old fledgling mariner. Being designated to a research ship in the Norwegian Sea, I could not reach directly my prime destination and in the interim get on board of a large mother ship. She drifted somewhere in the midst of the Norwegian Sea not far from the major fishing ground, which was a little too far from my research ship that was scouting for herring on the periphery.

In fact, the herring fishery had nothing to do with the real oceanic or sea ground, which in that part of the sea could be located at the depths of almost 2000-2500m. Here, the fishers were after the oceanic pelagic fish, which was swimming in the upper layers of the open sea and feeding on its major food-forage - tiny crustaceans by the name of Calanus and Euphausiacea. So, it has been a classical pelagic fishery, and a couple of thousand small drift netters have been pursuing their prey with driftnets right on the sea surface, netting it daily and nightly without respite. For me, an ambitious but still rooky marine biologist, the life on the mother ship, even though a temporary one, was perceived like a stagnant existence in a dullsville, which has never been dull and boring for the others three-four hundred residents of such a huge industrial watercraft. Those less ambitious and, of course, not bona fide mariners or just sea laborers, as I regarded them with some kind of contempt, no doubt welcomed and enjoyed their monotonous and nearly luxurious style of life in the ship-city, lazily drifting with the winds and currents in the sub-arctic Norwegian Sea.

The real mariners, fishing guys, were coming to the mother ship (they called it in Russian - plavbaza) non-stop on their small herring drift netters heavily loaded with catches. Before my maiden sea voyage, I had heard many amusing stories about the Norwegian herring fishery, and now, I had a great chance to see and meet the herring striking characters face to face. That whole picture-affair has been imprinted in my memory like a backdrop of surreal images, coming back from to time and reminding that forever gone ancient world of sea pirates. The small agile drift netters were appearing from the fog like phantoms and quickly berthing alongside of the mother ship (usually two at port and two at starboard). And almost immediately, the gangs of unshaved bearded fellows, very similar to the old-fashioned Caribbean buccaneers, were hectically climbing on board of the mother ship, quickly spreading around on the decks and disappearing in a maze of corridors of the huge vessel. The strange visitants with absentminded eyes were in frantic rush like looking and craving for something of really great value for them.

The guys would bring with them on board that absolutely special flavor of a drift netter distinct with the penetrating herring smell, which was deeply impregnated into the dark stained clothes of the mariners. The strangers from the sea, climbing on board wave by wave like the ancient pirates, were attacking the mother ship loaded with valuable things. And they probably knew well their targets and wished to extend the stay on board in strong determination to get those. The visitors rushed, being at odds with a strict time schedule allocated to each vessel and limited only to a couple of hours. The other drift netters were standing in line or rather drifting around the mother ship with the loads of 40-50 tons of barreled salted herring and impatiently whistling the hoarsely funnels.

While the crew was offloading the catch stored in 100kg herring barrels and replenishing the provision, a couple of the other enterprising guys-messengers were ferreting around, looking for a special strategic item. The item was the most longing and nearly sacred in their country commodity called 42 proof vodka (very often called sutchek-bough/offshoot, as made from the sawdust) or, at least, something closely or even remotely associated with it. In truth, it was an arduous and creative task due to the imposed strict ‘dry law’ on the fishing ground. However, the boundless human ingenuity would never suffer from the shortage of ideas to beat the laws imposed over the human basic unhealthy, but the irresistibly tempting and nearly hereditary instincts. For the mariners, there wasn’t any ingenuity gap or a problem to fill the space between a challenge and its solution. If the real Russian vodka, even made of sawdust, wasn’t in store (and usually not), the other substitute would be ready available under the name of Eau-do-Cologne ‘Swezhest-Freshness.’

The fishing guys cherished that special after-shave lotion as a high quality trademark of marine brandy, which was in great demand and named as the cognac of the Norwegian Sea, not less. They claimed it was strong, hitting the brains right away, and especially palatable with a piece of fatty salted herring. Those young and even older lovers of the aftershave drink didn’t care much about their livers, which would show inevitable degeneration a little later, but for sure. The guys did not pay attention to the ugly ‘aftershave’ urine smell in the washrooms of a tiny drift netter and everywhere around on the decks. The herring captains were always hurried up to leave the mother ship and reach the best fishing spots before nightfall to shoot their nets in the right time, which had to be done before the herring schools began performing a daily cycle of nocturnal vertical migrations up to the ocean surface, so entangling in the fishing nets. The mariners loaded with fresh victuals and cognac-Swezhest were reluctantly leaving the floating paradise and quickly disappearing into the misty wavy void of the Norwegian Sea.

The mother ship was a very special one of those many that appeared in the country after WWII. It has been handily reconstructed from a unique type of American transport vessel called the Liberty ships, which were a class of special inexpensive cargo ships built in the United States during World War II (usually designed just for one-way trip - to cross the Atlantic with a humanitarian-military cargo for USSR or perish from the Luftwaffe bombs and German U-boats torpedoes.) The Soviets and Russians have always been ingenious with scavenging and forging something fleeting and fabricating it almost from nothing and especially from the outdated western kind of inventions. So, this time they came very handy with the USA second hand mass-production and didn’t send the Liberty ships to a Martin furnace (in Russian – Martenovskiy Petch.)

Instead, they cut two Liberties and refashioned, welded those into one huge mother ship for the herring fishery. And they did it very well, turning such a simplistic construction into a floating (however, not all time on an even keel) sea paradise. The interior of the ship was featured in genuine oak panels and mahogany furniture for the captain’s and chief officers’ quarters. After their shifts on the decks and engine rooms, the guys had a chance of civilized walking in bedroom slippers along the soft-carpeted corridors. The life inside the mother ship was great, but it was still boring for one resident chosen (at least by myself) and designated for a completely different exploratory life in the vast oceanic world. For me, that real life was going on far away and beyond the high decks of the luxurious mother ship. I didn’t wont and hated walking in bedroom slippers on the face of the sea.

On the high seas, a thousand of small, restless drift netters were preoccupied with a daily dangerous routine, chasing the elusive herring shoals among stormy waves. In that vast domain of waves and fish, outside of the big ship, seven meters down to the surface, was my non-fictional romantic world and my craving oceanic science, which was closely associated with the pungent smell of fish in every corner of a herring drift netter (we called them just – drifters). And I wouldn’t mind accepting that very special professional balsam of piscine smell mixed up with the iodine aroma of the sea.

The dangerous and exciting life game of the affectionate co-existence with the violent nature was going on down there on the slippery oscillating decks of tiny herring catchers. Being incarcerated in a luxurious cabin of the mother ship, I was impatiently looking ahead into the future to enter into the enigmatic oceanic world, which was a fantastic world of a bona fide marine biologist. That moment, I couldn’t even imagine that my lodging on a drift netter had already been designated in the forward part of it or, as they called it – forepeak (forpik – in Russian), right below the anchor, which was clinking, bumping on the waves all the time without respite.

In such blissful and romantic ignorance of the upcoming events, I was waiting for my lawful entry into that hazardous game the herring fishers have been playing daily and nightly. My scientific ship was expected to tie up alongside and pick me up in a couple of day. It happened only seven days later and not to my liking. That day, a boatswain came and announced, An industrial drifter is coming to pick you up and be ready at two o’clock sharp this afternoon. I thought that the man was not quite aware about my important scientific designation, as a bona fide scientist-scout, and, therefore, I reminded him about it and about my official destination exactly and only to a scientific ship. But the man remained unyielding and explained that the industrial drift netter was going to deliver me to the scientific vessel on the fishing ground.

Personally, I didn’t like such a complicated scenario. The boatswain had probably noticed my discontent and elucidated further with a wily smile, You’ll enjoy swimming to your ship, for sure. That time I thought, as everyone in such circumstances would probably think, that the man was joking. These guys at sea would like uttering many rough, but not evil-spirited jokes, especially if they saw a fledgling mariner before them. Therefore, I didn’t worry too much, and my reply went in consonant and in accord with the humor of that weather-bitten individual, Well, I’d love to. I’m a good swimmer. The last sentence was completely true, however, a little irresponsible under the circumstances. But the boatswain didn’t mind and looked like completely satisfied with my readiness for swimming in the Norwegian Sea.

Exactly at two o’clock that afternoon, a large cargo derrick on the port side hoisted up my body in a special parachute-net and dropped down on the deck of the rusty commercial drift netter with the side number MI-1043. She was going to deliver me to the designated research ship, which was scouting on the northern area, somewhere near the confluence of two sub-arctic seas - Norwegian and Greenland. The weather was nice and the sea tranquil on the surface, however, swelling with long smooth waves, coming from the west. And it was inevitably affecting my not yet accustomed vestibules and, accordingly, the stomach, which became upsetting and revolting, especially after the food and because that special aftershave smell all over around and everywhere on the drift netter; the scouts of the drifter were without doubt successful and get the coveted stuff of the mother ship.

It was mid-September when we arrived to the point of rendezvous with the designated research vessel, which was searching for herring along the northeastern shelf of Jan Mayen (a tiny Norwegian volcanic island in the Arctic Ocean; 55 km long.) That segment of the Arctic is a noteworthy one. In the region, the Atlantic and sub-arctic currents converge, creating a unique oceanic biotic and a-biotic (non-organic or mineral) mix. The scientists named the tempestuous region as a polar front, which has been an absolutely indispensable target of scientific curiosity and exploration for the last years. The young and not so young biologists and oceanographers were coming to the region, having in mind the major goals - to catch, probe, investigate and write down their wise scientific papers called monographs and dissertations or just scientific articles.

Besides of such an appealing scientific merit, the polar front is even more attractive and vital spot for small silver fishes, which aggregate into millions and billions of their own kin of the Norwegian-Scandinavian herring stock, probably the largest herring stock in the whole oceanic world. The fishes exist and migrate far north only due to the high value foodstuffs of tiny red and white crustaceans in the Latin classification of the Calanoid Copepod Family – Calanus finmarchicus and Calanus hyperborean together with the most famous crustacean of the oceans – Euphausiacea, which support the life of gigantic Cetaceans-whales in the Antarctic waters (Antarctic krill - Euphausia superba).

The other crustacean genus of krill, Meganyctiphanes norvegica, resides in the North Atlantic. In summertime, the dense swarms of krill proliferate all along the sub-arctic polar front from Iceland, at the southwest, to Spitsbergen (Norwegian -Svalbard), at the northeast. The fish shoals, mostly herring and mackerel, are migrating from the Atlantic waters along the underwater Norwegian-Greenland ridge and clinging to the feeding area of the polar front for nearly three months until the autumn stormy disruption starts its seasonal invasion with the northern winds, dense fogs and snow charges, coming right from the central Arctic basin.

In time our ship reached the shelf area of Jan Mayen, the adverse nature forces had already posed to take over and overpower the short spell of summer and dominate, blasting this sub-arctic world with unrelenting storms during the next six-seven months. No wonder that the skippers of the both drift netters hurried up to execute the transfer. A chief mate personally approached me and said, Well, it’s time for you, young man, to swim to your ship rather quickly. Again, it was the same innocent joke I had heard on the mother ship before my departure. But for the moment, I was no longer so enthusiastic with my swimming ability, and it definitely did not look like a joke. The chief mate had probably noticed the apprehensive expression on my face and specified further,

Don’t worry. You’ll get a special raft, of course.

Why the raft if you have the vessel and the boats?

The chief navigator did not pay much attention to the fledgling mariner’s incompetence and only asked,

Do you think that the herring drifters can tie up at the high seas?

Why not? this question should have never been asked. But I was the young inexperienced seafarer, just a tenderfoot in the sea world with a fresh diploma of ichthyologist.

The chief mate obviously saw it and explained further, We cannot moor or use a boat in the open sea in such swell or any other time. The raft would probably be much safer. But the explanation did not relieve my worry even if the raft ‘would probably be much safer.’ That ‘would probably’ sounded a little improbably. The sea had already begun displaying the heavy undulation, affecting the vessel and, as well, my not yet accustomed vestibules and stomach. I felt that something big and ugly was approaching. Not many nowadays mariners, if any, had experienced that exceptional method of conveyance on the high seas. For us, back to the 60-70-s of the last century, it had been a common practice of communication between the small drift netters engaged in herring fishery in the Norwegian Sea. However, that common habit was applicable mostly to a secondary stuff, like supplementary materials, movies, supply, etc. and rarely to the people. The legal provisions of the Murmansk Herring Fleet didn’t authorize the risky floating transfer of personal in the stormy fall-winter months. If required, the passengers would be delivered over the mother ships, tankers or large transport vessels.

So, I was about to become a fortunate volunteer enlisted into an exquisite and probably limited club of humans, transferred from one vessel to another by a flimsy rubber raft. I was instructed to get ready in a couple of minutes, as the skippers of the both drifters were not sure with a reliable forecast without any reliability at all. It could be a full-scale storm or a short-term gale or something in between. Not many meteorologists in this world, having the most advanced computer gadgets, could predict the weather on the margin of the Greenland and Norwegian seas even today.

So, the hurry was on, as the skipper (we have always called them kapitan-captain) of the industrial drifter MI-1043 wished to finish as fast as possible and then to rush to the fishing ground and start making the really big herring money for the crew and himself. The Norwegian Sea herring fishery was called a golden fishing business for a good reason. For the fishers, it was alike the Klondike Gold Rush for the prospectors of the Yukon in northwestern Canada almost a century ago. The Norwegian Sea herring rush was risky, wild, competitive and all the time in haste, but promising the hefty payouts. The herring guys earned 10-15 times more than their compatriots on the continent.

A consensual agreement between the captains of two drifters has been achieved. Even in such unpredictable weather conditions, the passenger was scheduled for transfer as soon as possible. As the chief mate reasonably explained, Here, the nice weather will set in only six months later, so we cannot wait for such long, as you know. I knew it and didn’t want to wait for such long either and didn’t worry about the weather and was even excited. I stood on a threshold of a completely new life, and I was not scared a bit to come out and challenge the waves and the arctic winds - just a fantastic adventure for a young soul, which became bored with the uninspiring, monotonous, primitive life back over there, on the land and then, on the mother ship. A fledgling mariner in his very first voyage would never pay any attention to the whistling sounds of the winds, modulating a specific lively melody up in the masts and rigging. I would understand and read unerringly those sounds-premonitions in the pass of my oceanic life. Today, a full-scale nor’easter was on its natural schedule. Therefore, the busy serious guys around hurried up to launch the passenger across that narrow water strip between the drifting ships.

The boatswain brought me to the port side and motioned down at the small raft, which was bobbing on the waves alongside the starboard,

"Here is your new personal big ship. I made it from eleven herring floats. It’s stable and reliable, and you shouldn’t worry about safety even in such weather." The man was talking too much to hide his apprehension. He probably was not sure why the captains had decided to drop this young lad in time when the arctic storm was definitely under way. For this reason, the boatswain did his special humanitarian contribution, binding together all eleven herring floats and, thus, constructing a larger raft than usual. At the moment, I wasn’t quite aware and did not care much about the difference or correlation between the number of the floats in the raft construction and its seaworthiness. And only the old sea wolf, boatswain, read the situation well and, therefore, foresaw a force major scenario.

The raft was constructed from the herring rubber-kind floats shaped like a yellowish-greenish pear with the diameter of 45-50cm. The floats were tightened up together with a thick nylon rope and wrapped up with a herring net. In the middle of the raft, the boatswain made a passenger spot constructed of two flat-bulging rubber cushions, which added some extra seaworthiness to the design. This ingenious creation looked like a perfect unsinkable craft, and its passenger had an absolute privilege of riding, drifting and testing the raft to prove the boatswain’s professionalism. One strong deckhand held a long rope, called the leader-povodets, attached to the raft’s binding net, keeping my personal float alongside of the ship on its lee side. The amphibious craft, dynamically bobbing up and down on the waves, floated high and safe on the surface.

The boatswain, being proud of his inspiring construction, again gestured towards it with his final safety instructions,

"Now, you have to jump down and land on all your fours right at the center, otherwise you can tilt the raft and fall off the raft into the water. Do not miss; it would be difficult to catch the body if you got under the ship. Well, you see the weather is not very good for this today." (As it would have been any weather very good to plunge into the Norwegian-Greenland seas over board.) The professional advice of the old mariner was timely encouraging, especially with that – to catch the body. Now, I knew that at least somebody would be looking after my body if it ended in the water. The boatswain’s kindhearted farewell instruction motivated me to exactly follow his reasonable recommendations about the jumping-aiming right at the center of the raft.

At the moment, all this business appeared to me a little different from the expectations of an exciting romantic adventure. The sea was roughing, swelling with the heavy waves, which were bumping at the hull with great intimidating force, shaking the small drift netter and splashing over the bulwark. However, at the sheltered side of the vessel it didn’t greatly affect the raft, which was controlled by two hefty silent deckhands. The sturdy guys, like the ship’s masts, firmly stood on the rocking deck. They were equipped with long sea hooks, which designation I had already realized, and watched with the alarming eyes the young kamikaze. The mariners looked like personally did not appreciate the whole operation of transfer in the moment of stormy weather with the real prospects of fishing a human body out of the turbulent sea. The sea conditions were already up to the levels of three-four points, according to the marine scale or the Beaufort wind force. And, the increasing wind thrusts indicated that it was going to add a couple of more Beaufort points very soon. The indication was true, as the waves near the hull started bobbing-rocking the raft up and down with the amplitude of one meter high and up in the last minutes.

But I was not a bit scared and concentrated my mind and muscles to the major task, attempting to harmonize my all-essential body components and functions with the rhythm of the waves and aiming a perfect jump on all fours right at the center of the raft. Before plunging down towards the raft, I thought that one more question directly related to the safety of this operation should have been addressed to the boatswain,

Shouldn’t I get a life-ring with me? (The Herring Fleet didn’t have the lifejackets those days, but only the primitive heavy life-rings, which we called spasatelniy krug.)

Why would you need it? The raft is made of the solid rubber floats, which are more reliable than any life-ring. Then, in case of…it would be useless anyway, young man. And, you said that you’re a good swimmer.

The explanation of the old sea wolf was confusing but absolute and even flattering. The herring guys were confident that a good swimmer should have never used a useless life-ring in the Arctic seas. That moment, I didn’t pay much attention to the other phrase of ‘in case of…’ Then, the standing nearby deckhand made his contribution to my safety insurance, corroborating the boatswain’s encouraging statement, If the raft and the floats failed, the life-ring would not be of help to you, man, either. The deckhand was very pragmatic and knowledgeable, providing further invaluable advice, The water is very cold, pal. So, you’d better stay on the raft all the time. The frame of mind of those seagoing guys was unfailing, developing through their personal experience at the sea.

I didn’t mind accepting and following that what they said and sticking to the raft, and only one point was a little conflicting with my conventional logic regarding the useless life-ring. So, I thought and wished to clarify further my idea with one more suggestion, ‘the life-ring will be helpful if I fell from the raft, as you could catch me much easier with your hooks,’ but I didn’t elucidate such imaginable and not desirable scenario to the busy nice people around me. The folks on the deck wished me all the best and offered the priceless counseling, and they had their own experience and logic, which I could not fully apprehend and especially that suggestion - ‘if the raft and the floats failed’. But I got the most important message – to stay on the raft all the time because the life-ring would be useless if…The lessons of the real mariners were great, and some other unspoken facts of the sea rafting I was going to find out very soon.

The anxious fellows on the deck once more cautioned, "Jump on the fours." It meant that the legs and hands should touch the raft unanimously and simultaneously for the equally balanced contact with and right at the flat passenger spot of the raft. The boatswain looked confident and assuring, as he would have been an experienced guy with a number of personal rafting across the stormy seas during his long mariner’s career. And, I could not restrain myself asking my last question,

You’d probably been being rafting many times before. How was that?

The boatswain exhibited a slight confusion, but honestly confessed right away,

I hadn’t gotten a chance, but several times I helped the guys like you and they all did well and came through nicely. The captain said you are a marine biologist and, therefore, shouldn’t be afraid at all. It’s all right, young man, don’t worry. It’ll not take for long. I did for you a very good boat with wide two-floats on the middle part, as you could see down there, and you shouldn’t miss it and enjoy your ride. Good luck! This unusually long and sophisticated speech of a simple seafaring man and his assurance that all his rafting passengers came through nicely worked nicely for my self-confidence and finally settled all my concerns. Everything has been under control, and I expected to conclude my odyssey by safely coming through very soon. Honestly, I was very thankful to the boatswain and shook his hand, saying,

Thanks for everything, boatswain, (I didn’t have a chance to ask his name.) It would be my pleasure drifting on your safechange boat. While saying it, I could not imagine the kind of rafting-drifting was waiting for me in the open sea.

It was, to tell the truth, flattering and encouraging about getting the credentials of a real marine biologist, which was not true yet and just an introduction into my future life. However, the stormy sea would never scare a bona fide marine biologist even at the start of his/her career. The other ship was looming not far, and the boatswain was probably right that it was not going to take much time for my swimming down to the assignation. In fact, the receiving ship with a higher hull against my raft and with the high wind-resistant area was already quickly drifting towards my raft under the pressure of the southwester blow right from the Atlantic. The boatswain tapped my shoulders towards the bulwark and said, It’s time. You’ve to hurry. The time is coming short.

I jumped down, landing perfectly on all fours and precisely at the middle segment of the raft, which was covered by the surprisingly soft pads on the top of the other two flat floats. It propelled up my body a bit, but not enough to be jettisoned beyond the raft’s perimeter. Then, I pulled my belongings in a small bag, attached at the other end of a leading rope. Next moment, struggling to find a perfect balance on the raft and deliberately demonstrating a show-up bravery to hide my apprehension, I gave a friendly wave to the boatswain and the helping guys. They all were great and helpful with their counseling and everything. Under the wind pressure, my raft and the recipient-drifter were moving, closing on each other ready to meet at some point. The receiving drift netter was moving really fast pushed by the brisk southwestern breeze towards the raft. I even became a little disappointed that the mission of transfer had almost been accomplished so prosaically and simply.

The receiving vessel was quickly closing on my raft, and the rendezvous was expected shortly, probably in 15-20 minutes. The southwestern wind was brisk but warm and pleasant, and the raft oscillated up and down on the waves in the smooth and delightfully lulling rhythm. Then, I detected that the sea and weather had changed around me most suddenly. The winds calmed and the Sun appeared out of the clouds low over the horizon. The former grayish color of the sea has momentarily transformed and emerged in new splendid blue features under the bright sunshine. The whole immense water-world around me fell into sinister silence, but not for long. I noticed the small snowflakes in the air and felt like the whiffs of a cold breeze began pushing at my back.

I turned and saw a menace - the pitch-dark cloud had appeared on the sky, moving from the northeast and dropping, connecting with the sea surface and covering everything around. A cold stormy messenger was approaching, coming from the Greenland Sea and pressing, competing with the southwestern gentle wind, which wasn’t strong enough to stand against the force of the Arctic. In collaboration with the gloomy clouds, the mighty gale was progressing from the northeast, creating the water havoc on the surface and matching, subduing the southwestern Atlantic undulations with the fresh newly built waves. The drastic weather changes had occurred probably in 5-10 minutes and were such swift due to the temperature contrast at the polar front. The thing, which was beneficial for the local plankton and fish, became right now very bad factor for one human being, accidentally sailing along the polar front in the flimsy craft.

It didn’t take long when the strong nor’easter had decisively overpowered and soothed the opposing Atlantic puffs and reversed the drift of the receiving vessel to the southwest. And the drift netter, which had already neared to my raft at 100-150m, had started moving away and disappearing in the grey shades of dense misty fog. The waves were steadily increasing and displaying white foamy crests. The raft, which I saw from the deck of the vessel like being positioned high and safely on the surface, was definitely losing its dominant buoyancy. In the moments of skidding down on the waves, the front of the raft was diving deeper under the pressure of the waves. My clothes start quickly saturating with cold salty water. But I did not pay any attention to this, as the most alarming thing was that the visual contacts with the both vessels became hazy and obscured by the fog and high waves. In September, the polar night had already approached these high latitudes, and in storm, the visibility drastically decreased to 30-40m. I became really scared about the prospects of disappearing without traces in that crazy water world around me.

The master of the receiving research drifter had been in the navy service some time ago, as a captain of a destroyer of the Soviet Northern Navy in Severomorsk. In such a duty, he was the best commander, who could find an almost invisible sign of his aim or a periscope among stormy waves. The master was confident that he could get his target this time as well and identify the tiny radar reflections of the raft with a living soul on it. But he didn’t know that the raft was not equipped with a standard metallic reflector, which should have been a mandatory safety attribute of any such craft that to locate it among the waves or in foggy conditions. The master of the other ship and even the experienced boatswain thought that the reflector would not be needed. Now it was too late to regret or mend the situation.

The ships had disappeared in the misty clouds mixed with dense snow charges. The wind quickly increased to a full-scale storm. The sea caught with the wind speed thus creating a very dangerous resonance with the high waves. The wavy hills were hitting viciously the microscopic floating thing-raft with clear intents to strike hard and overturn the passenger with his float. The whole situation was turning unpredictable and dangerous. The rider of the raft could change nothing and couldn’t find any answer what to do in such a situation, feeling only the discomforting symptoms of being lost in the water chaos. Yes, it was the absolutely new scenario in my life as would be in the life of any human being under the circumstances. I was about to give up and panic.

Then, most suddenly, I heard the inner voice urging and advising, "Don’t be scared … don’t panic … you have to become a part of this ruthless game … be an active participant … flow with it … feel the rhythms of the waves …this is what you were looking for…isn’t it?" What was that? Even today, I couldn’t explain the logic or rational sense of it or the source of the voice. It was like inside of me and, at the same time, outside. I glanced around at the waves and saw just smooth soft water hills and nothing more and nothing scary, just my craving ocean. Many years I was dreaming about the distant seas and the great ocean, and at the moment I was right at the midst of that new world. The dreamer reached and realized his visions. So, what the matter and what the reason for the perturbations?

I possessed the best floating craft, as the boatswain said, and it could sustain the storm. My mental persuasion helped, and I became calmer and confident, feeling the rhythm of the waves and accepting the menacing situation as an integral part of my new life in the ocean. This part was tragic and at the same time it was probably comical to somebody, who could see this picture from aside. The miniature floating craft on the slopes of high waves with its passenger, being still standing on his all fours, like a beast howling to the Moon, was more comical illustration, than a tragic picture if it had not been in the Norwegian Sea. The arctic seas would never stage comedies, but producing only the lonely dramas without many human spectators around.

The human being on the raft was no different of a chicken, which slang (at least for mariners) has been for the young guys conquered by seasickness and, therefore, feebly walking on the shaky decks. I was now no more than that chicken from the old mariners’ song by Cyril Tawney:

"Chicken on a raft on a Monday morning,

Oh, what a terrible sight to see,

The Dabtoes forrard and the dustmen aft,

Sittin’ there a’pickin’ at a chicken on a raft!"

At the midst of the Norwegian Sea, the timid, soaked by the cold seawater chicken was sitting on the raft, and the day was exactly Monday. The scenery was definitely less funny and even terrible to be in, as the Almighty Neptune was ‘a’pickin’ at a chicken on a raft!’ The human-chicken, regardless his romantic enthusiasm, didn’t feel comfortable at all in his awkward position.

My hands started numbing with cold, and I could not get a strong grip on the nylon netting of the raft. And, thank God, the boatswain did it professionally and put into the construction more building material and not the traditional nine floats, but all eleven. It was an unwritten law of the Herring Fleet – never make a raft of even numbers. Therefore, they would never put 12, 13 (unlucky odd) or 14 and 15 floats would be too many. At the moment, I understood the old mariner’s contentment about his craft made of eleven floats. The extra two floats together with the wide flat sit at the center of the raft made all the difference, maintaining the raft more stable on the waves and preventing it from flipping over or diving deeper on the slopes of speeding waves.

The boatswain’s ingenious construction kept me on the surface and I was still on board. All my clothes and the body had already been thoroughly saturated, and the legs in the fashionable national shoes, which called "keddy – the sneakers" (just came into production), became numb with cold. I was still-frozen, fixed in the same crouched and the only safe posture on all fours and, to keep up a perfect safe balance, couldn’t move even an inch. My prime instinct of survival prompted me that because such a peculiar posture, it kept the rubber boat sailing smoothly on the waves. I had lost the perception of reality in the world around me. It could be that a lot of time has elapsed from the moment I stepped into that ‘another world’, which reflected through my memory like a bad nightmare.

But, the strangest thing was that I did not feel scared and even became relaxed and nonchalant and almost happy, the same as in my childish dreams when I would not mind jumping from a high mountain down into a chasm because I knew that I could fly, feeling happy relaxation and tears of joy because that absolutely heavenly feeling of hovering in the air. Therefore, no longer I was concerned or alarmed by what was going on around me, experiencing just the pleasure of continuous sliding motions into the cavities between the waves and climbing up in the state of being half-drowsy. The people, being in such mental shape, would not even think that it was that dangerous state of absentmindedness together with creeping hypothermia, which would take away unlucky them with smiling faces.

Lost in the water chaos, I was joyfully dreaming and experiencing strange visions in the dreams. And suddenly, I saw before me a large posture-statue, ascending from the sea. No doubt, it was that image, coming from my adolescent books and sea stories and standing now amid the sea turmoil before my raft with its ominous trident in the mighty hand, as the ancient Greeks in their mythology would herald, ‘Thy awful hand the brazen trident bears’. The white bearded titan, Neptune-Poseidon, with the clouds of white hair on the monumental head was whipping the sea and stirring the winds with increasing force. The image before me was so realistic that I thought saying something, asking for help. So, I appealed, shouted through my dream into the howling emptiness - ‘Oh, help me please!’ But, it did not help and the relief did not come, and the Neptune’s sheep, as we called the waves with frothy whitecaps, were running even higher, becoming the Neptune’s elephants. The allegorical old sea rascal was playing games with his human prey and enjoying the drama in his boundless water kingdom.

Suddenly a huge wave struck the raft nearly capsizing it, and I became more alert and woke up from my blissful state of dreams. The wave that barely missed taking me of the raft had saved me instead. I realized the threat of the water hills, rolling at the raft and splashing over my waterlogged body, and it was not a dream but the deadly reality. I lost my proud composure and panicked, bending, pressing the body closer to the raft surface and clutching the ropes. At that critical moment, the most sudden recollection flicked through my memory. I knew it from some historical books about the Norwegian Sea, which I read in the school and before coming to the sea.

A bit north of the island of Jan Mayen, could be 60-80 miles further into the Greenland Sea, was the main route of the WWII Land-Lease convoys, sailing to Murmansk and Archangelsk. Many American, Canadian and British mariners, helping the Soviets with the advanced military hardware and food, lost their lives in these waters. Their plight was terrible without any hope to be rescued, without rafts and under heavy barrage of German U-boats. But they had never given up and sacrificed their lives for the other lives, for my life. It was my last strong encouragement - do not surrender and stage the fight with every fiber of my being. My inner voice prompted a surviving instinct – ‘take the rope … the next wave could easily take you, wash out of the raft …’ I did no longer feel my hands numb with cold and reclined and clutched the ropes with the teeth. And, it became a potent sign of my future life in the ocean and even on the land – to hold on with all the strength and with all means available and never give up.

The captain of the receiving vessel had seen many violent storms in his navy career in the past, and every time he was coming out victorious. Therefore, the captain was confident this time because he saw on the radar what nobody could see – the hardly noticeable flashes of something, and he knew that the something was the life, which he should take care of. A long time ago, the captain was a young mariner, almost like that guy in trouble on the raft. That time, the captain was lucky to find a raft and survive three days in the stormy Barents Sea. Now, he was confident that those flickers on the radar did not come, as the reflections of the white crests of the waves or from the jettisoned scrap. The captain was doing the dangerous maneuvers against the waves that to come closer to the white-greenish flares on the radar screen. And he got the aim.

In one moment, the raft jumped up high on the