The Strait of Death - Вадим Иванович Кучеренко

– The sea, the sea, – grumbled an old man. – What do you know about the sea, boy? I mean the real sea, when you can’t even see the coast through the highest scope telescope, when the wind is a hundred knots and the waves are up to the sky…

The "boy" who was being scolded by the old sailor might have been not less than thirty-five. And it didn’t seem at all that he hadn't seen the sea – it had left too much of a mark on his face and hands, and had thoroughly tanned his skin with sea salt and squalls. But not a shadow of resentment flickered in his blue, like the sea in clear weather eyes.

They were sitting on the open terrace of the tiny wooden one-storied house where the old man lived, and from where they was a wonderful view of the port and the surrounding costal area. A cool breeze had been blowing steadily from the morning, pleasantly refreshing in summer, but very few people would enjoy it by the end of autumn. The old man was sitting ensconced in an old Voltaire-like armchair, cloaked in a warm blanket and resting his head on the back of the armchair, in a way that he was able to reach a bottle of madeira wine that stood on a roughly built lumber table. But he had no need in making efforts – his guest, who had one gifted him that armchair, brought the bottle and from time to time filled the old man’s glass with thick dark-cherry drink, raising himself for a moment from a comfortable old cane chair. The lower was the level of liquid in the bottle, the more talkative the host became.

– I’m telling you, Anton, – the old man continued his speech – that you’ll never understand what the Sea is, until you experience a dozen storms, like those when masts are bent almost to the water level, and, at least one shipwreck. Such a shipwreck when you are not saved immediately from the water like some soaked puppy, but being drenched to the skin for a couple of days in a devilish cold plunge pool. Then you will really be able to tell what the sea is, and how much salt it has per a square-mile.

The old seawolf himself survived a good deal of sea accidents during his long life, and never was onshore longer than one month at a time. He was very proud of this fact, and mentioned it whenever he could during a talk.

Although the word “talk” was not suitable for uncle Egor (he went by that name along the whole coast). He wasn’t keen on listening to people, and every discussion would have been possible only in case he had been the one to talk. Falling that, and the old man became silent, started yawning or simply turned his face to the wall, snoring loudly, showing his brazing disregard. Uncle Egor considered that no one could tell him anything more than he had already known about the sea and seamanship. The other topics were nothing to him. As there was nothing except the sea in his life.