Ivan Kruzenshtern

Russia’s first circumnavigation 

Ivan Fyodorovich Kruzenshtern was connected with the sea his entire life. His father’s estate was on the Baltic coast, not far from Revel, as Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, was known at the end of the 18th century. The Baltic Sea was shallow and cold, but it was a sea nonetheless, and, living on its shores, it was easy to dream of other seas. Today, virtually everyone has seen the sea, no matter where they might live, even if it is only on television or in photographs. It is hard for us to imagine that, in centuries past, it was possible to live an entire lifetime without the slightest conception of what ocean waves were like. There was a reason that the navy enlisted those who had grown up on the coast. They had known the sea since childhood. 

Kruzenshtern became a naval officer, but who knows? Perhaps, reading of distant voyages, he imagined that all oceans looked like the smooth-as-glass Baltic. Years passed, and the young man traveled to England,  sailed the Pacific, the Atlantic and the Indian Oceans. Oceans, it turned out, came in every imaginable variety, and at some point Kruzenshtern started to dream of something monumental. He drew up a proposal, A Thousandfold Reflections, in which he argued for the necessity of organizing the first Russian expedition to circumnavigate the globe. 

The idea suited the imperial court. This was a time when all the Great Powers were actively seeking new markets and new trading partners. The tsar decided it was a worthwhile venture and ordered that two ships be prepared to set sail. Kruzenshtern and his assistant, Captain Lisyansky, readied the sloops Nadezhda and Neva. 

By 1803, everything was ready. Meanwhile, the Russian-American Company had become involved. The newly-emerging United States had begun to look like an advantageous trading partner. And there was another country that seemed to be somewhere in the general vicinity of America: the mysterious Japan. One Russian expedition had already managed to visit this country, and its unapproachable rulers had even given them permission to set anchor once each year in the port of Nagasaki, in order to conduct trade.

So it made sense for the departing explorers to join forces with diplomats and traders. Kruzenshtern was joined on his voyage by the famous Nikolai Rezanov (whose romantic love story has had audiences of the Moscow musical Juno and Avos sobbing for the past 20 years). But the real life story of Rezanov’s voyage with Kruzenshtern was not such a pretty picture. The tsar had given Rezanov, who was being sent as ambassador to Japan, authority over the entire expedition, with Kruzenshtern left in charge only of naval matters. The problem was that Kruzenshtern had not been informed of this. Rezanov never got around to showing the captain his papers, merely appearing on board with a huge entourage. Due to this unexpected crowding of the ship, the expedition was forced to leave without the artist who was to have kept a graphic record of any scientific discoveries. 

Nonetheless, the Nadezhda and the Neva set sail. The Atlantic was crossed without incident. But in Brazil, the first conflict erupted between Kruzenshtern and Rezanov. Rezanov had decided that the expedition should not attempt to round the treacherous Cape Horn and ordered that they reverse course and sail east. For Kruzenshtern, this meant giving up his dream of sailing around the world. For his sailors, volunteers who had signed up to circumnavigate the globe, it meant the loss of the promised reward: a shortening of their term of service. Kruzenshtern refused to turn back and the ships headed toward the Strait of Magellan – some of the most dangerous waters for any ship. 

They were tossed about; the ships repeatedly lost and found one another. But they made it around the cape and successfully reached the Hawaiian Islands. Here, in the blissful shade of palm trees, the leadership conflict erupted with new force. The expedition was running short of provisions and Kruzenshtern gave the order to barter pieces of metal for food, but only for food. It was at this point that Rezanov decided to collect rare shells for the St. Petersburg Kuntskamera, the museum of curiosities established by Peter the Great, and began bartering to get them. This triggered a wild and boisterous argument, evidently fueled by Kruzenshtern’s temper and Rezanov’s lack of professionalism, as well as a rankling conflict between the men’s vanities. 

All we know is that Kruzenshtern did not permit Rezanov to exchange metal knives for shells. The matter escalated into the vilest insults. The crews of both ships loyally supported the captain and refused to recognize the authority of the ambassador. Rezanov suffered a nervous breakdown and spent lengthy periods shut up in his cabin. We can only guess what Kruzenshtern was feeling and thinking, but when the expedition reached Kamchatka, it seemed that the worst he could have suspected was starting to come true. Rezanov demanded immediate punishment of the guilty parties, that they be sent by land to Petersburg, and that those who had insulted him be arrested. Kruzenshtern and his officers were forced to officially ask for forgiveness, after which the expedition set sail for Japan, which was closed to all Europeans. 

Alas, Rezanov’s attempts to break through the wall erected by the Japanese shoguns proved fruitless. On top of the fact that the ships ran into such an awful storm that not a trace of mercury could be seen in the barometer... on top of the fact that they were forced to spend many days on shore behind a thick fence... in the end, Rezanov and Kruzenshtern were informed that all foreigners must immediately leave Japan and never return again.  

The two foes parted ways. Rezanov traveled to Monterey, California, where he would enter into the hasty and romantic marriage with a young Spanish-American woman that has been immortalized on the Moscow stage (unlike his tremulous counterpart from the musical, the marriage did not stop the real-life Rezanov from keeping a twelve-year-old native girl on the side). 

Kruzenshtern and Lisyansky continued their voyage. The ships sailed toward China, and from there on to the Cape of Good Hope. Here, the Nadezhda and the Neva lost track of one another. Kruzenshtern chose a less dangerous but longer route home, while Lisyansky decided to take his chances with a shorter route, reaching St. Petersburg in August of 1806, a week before his commander. So, officially, the first Russian voyager to circle the globe was not Kruzenshtern, but Lisyansky. This did not prevent Ivan Fyodorovich from achieving fame. The book he wrote describing the expedition sold throughout Europe. His career was assured – the seafarer was named admiral and put in command of the Naval Cadet Corps, where he himself was trained. Later, he retreated to his family estate on the shores of the shallow and cold Baltic Sea, where he lived out his life in peace and solitude. 

The circle was complete. He returned to the place where he had grown up, where he had first seen the sea. There was no romantic and tragic tale of love in Kruzenshtern’s life; no epic poems were written in his honor; he was not the subject of any musicals. But his life had featured Brazilian jungles, the treacherous cliffs of the Strait of Magellan, tsunamis in the Sea of Japan, the warm breezes off the coast of Africa. It was a life to be envied.