Getting Creative

Between 1957 and 1959, China built seven tugboats for the Soviet Union: Chaser, Contemporary, Creative, Complete, Calm, Cautious, Classy.* After this set of septuplets arrived in our country, they were separated. Some were sent to serve in the Far East, and some to the distant North. Surprisingly, the most steadfast of them turned out to be a ship that landed in the northern town of Khatanga,  where conditions were far from easy. All the other tugboats from that era have been consigned to scrap heaps, their metal recycled. But Creative (Созидательный) continues patiently hauling coal and guiding other ships through northern ice fields.

For some reason I was finding it difficult to remember the name of the ship I was to board in a few hours. Whoever named it Creative surely had a rich imagination. I stuffed my backpack with a few packets of ramen noodles, two chocolate bars, dried apples, a sweater and some slippers. Just in case, I also packed a lighter, a knife, and coil of rope. If Creative got into trouble, I thought, I might stand a chance of holding out a bit longer with these items. Yet, for a ship with a name like Creative, there ought to be a way out of any trouble!

I had about two hours before my departure, so I lay down and closed my eyes, trying to doze a bit. Who knew what sort of night was ahead? In my thoughts, I could hear the calm voice of the Khatanga Sea Port boss, Sergei Zverev. I recalled how he sat in a comfortable leather chair behind his massive desk, staring at me long and hard, taking my measure. Then he stood, walked over to the window, through which the port’s ships were visible, and asked, as if he already knew the answer, “You want to go out into Khatanga Gulf?”

I kept quiet, considering his proposal. The Laptev Sea is very choppy in September. What if we ran aground or were caught in a storm? Before I left his spacious, gold-gleaming office, with its expensive hardwood cabinetry, I again met Zverev’s gaze. His face was marked by an old scar and carried the bare trace of a smile...

Suddenly a phone was ringing, wrenching me from semi-sleep back to reality. The port dispatcher was calling.

“Are you the journalist? Get to Pier 4 in ten minutes.”

“Hello, yes,” I answer, trying to shake the fog from my brain. “I am a journalist. But I don’t know where Pier 4 is!”

“Then go to Pier 1. Someone will meet you there and show you the way.”

“And where exactly is Pier 1? Unfortunately, I don’t know how to find that either.”

The dispatcher gently and patiently explains the route. And I quickly take a liking to him.

“I’ll find it,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. Yet, in reality, I am far from confident, as it is the middle of the night and I am in a completely unfamiliar town.

“Ok, good. If you get lost, call.”

Exiting the house, I walk toward the river. The cold bites at my cheeks and amplifies the sound of my steps through the still evening. A light snow, illuminated by the blue of the streetlights, falls on my shoulders, backpack and fur hat. There is no one around...

Suddenly, a large group of teenagers tumbles toward me. They are discussing something animatedly, laughing... Their laughter rings in my ears for a long while, but then even that fades away.

After a few more blocks, the streetlights come to an end. The strip of darkness between the village and the port is like a deep abyss that draws me irresistibly. Perhaps somewhere there is a better path, but for some reason I am not interested in searching for it, nor in calling the dispatcher. The ships’ lights seem very close. The water’s edge could not be more than 300 meters straight ahead.

I descend from the hills through a rather desolate area, heading toward the ships. The dispatcher phones me at the very moment a thin layer of ice breaks underfoot and my right boot is drenched by a deep puddle.

“How’re you doing? Everything okay?” the now familiar voice asks with concern.

“Yes, I am heading toward the brightest light I could see from the shore. I will soon be at some pier or other. Where to next?”

Following his directions, I walk to a blue guardhouse, then skirt around the left side of a construction crane and stop. Before me is a five-meter-high metal wall inscribed with LKh1124. It is a barge, I later learn that the sailors have nicknamed it “the LKheshka” (putting an affectionate -eshka ending onto the acronym). It is fastened to the shore by mooring cables as thick as a bogatyr’s biceps. Waves lap impotently between barge and shore.

Where is the ship? I walk around the crane. When I came upon the barge again, a person had appeared out of nowhere. Perhaps it is the dispatcher?

In reply to my question, he points toward a tall, grey-brown wall and says that Creative is tied up just on the other side. Looking closer, I notice rounded grooves with horizontal crossbars going up the side of the barge. It’s not a boarding ramp for passengers by any means, but it is definitely climbable.

After scaling the barge, I finally see the Creative. A searchlight reaches out of the darkness and illuminates the ship. Chimney stacks, masts, and cables, caught in the rays of the light, seem to be floating in the air. The only thing that unites them is the steady rumble of an idling motor rising up from somewhere down below.

As I become accustomed to the harsh light, I notice standing in a dark portion of the deck a fellow wearing a bright orange jacket. He shakes my hand in welcome, and I suddenly feel greatly relieved. I even forget about the water that is sloshing about in my right boot.

Everything is a bit fantastical, in particular the massive iron door that leads to the innards of the ship.

“The captain is busy. But you can have a cup of tea in the wardroom if you like,” says the orange-jacketed crewman, before he heads off somewhere above deck.

I am alone. The wardroom of Creative is small: two short tables and four benches. Green curtains tied with a string surround the portholes. On the far wall is a commendation from the port boss, thanking them for their excellent job leading ships to shore. It is entirely unlike any of the river-going vessels I have ridden on through the canals of St. Petersburg and Moscow.

Life here is arranged without any consideration for the fastidiousness of tourists. Yet the sunflower-adorned tablecloths and the warm buns, their tops sprinkled with sugar, have a somewhat homey appeal. It’s not really clear what I am allowed to do in the absence of crew members, so I reach for a cup and the heated teapot...

Suddenly, a sharp bump shakes the wardroom. There’s no time for tea now. I want to see what is going on up top. I take my camera and return to the deck at a run. The ship is departing. The distance from shore is rapidly expanding. The waves shimmer with reflections of the port lights. White rays from the searchlight shine from somewhere above and aft. The metal hawsers used to tow the barges begin to unwind. Two small launches help the sluggish LKheshka turn about and find its course. Like young bulls, the launches stubbornly poke the barges’ metal sides, forcing them, seemingly reluctantly, to form a straight line.

Within ten minutes, the maneuvering is done. Our small tugboat is firmly set on its course, with the barges obediently trailing behind.

The motion of the ship is so smooth that the navigational equipment on the bridge is the only thing that offers proof we are moving. Until the following morning there are only thick clouds, occasional snowflakes, and slack waves.

Some sort of modern Russian rap music is playing on the small bridge. Three people offer a friendly greeting and then return to their interrupted conversation. It is a calm and unhurried discussion about some aspect of ship life, but the abundance of slang keeps me from grasping what they are talking about. I stand near the door and watch.

Just one of the three – the oldest, with a thick grey mustache and a cunning squint – is wearing a uniform: a dark blue suit with the corporate emblem of the Khatanga Sea Trade Port. The others are dressed in tracksuits, as might be worn by someone out for a morning run, or sitting in front of the television. The grey track suit that one of them is wearing seems more respectable, and I surmise, amazed, that this is the captain. The youngest fellow is obviously a sailor. A smartphone – the source of the music – lies next to him.

Alexander Zvyagin

Sailor, 23, Krasnoyarsk

I studied for several years at the teacher’s institute. Then I decided to go into the army. Served my term. When I left the army, I needed money. Had to work. Mama said to me, “We know some people in Khatanga. Maybe go there?” I said I would go. I didn’t study to be a mechanic, because that was not my thing. I took classes to be a helmsman, passed the tests. Received the documents I needed to get a job and that’s it, I came here.

So you are a helmsman?

No, we don’t have that position. Here I am simply a sailor.

And what do you do?

What do you mean what? For now I steer the ship. There’s this instrument, an axiometer. It shows our path with one line, where we are going. And with another, green-red line, it shows the route that we should follow. If we deviate, then we can run aground and go nowhere fast.

Then you better steer well! I have to get back on Monday.

(Laughs) I also want to get home.

How long since you’ve been home?

A long time, since May 15. Only my willpower makes it bearable. I’m waiting for the navigational season to end. I called my girlfriend recently. She was crying. It makes me really sad… When I left Krasnoyarsk last year, it was easier, because I didn’t have a girlfriend then. Of course, I missed my friends too... But when we would talk on the phone, they would always be joking. My girl, she takes everything much more seriously.

Do you worry that next season she will not let you go out on Creative? It’s hard for girlfriends to live like that.

That’s true. But we’re in the same gang, all our friends are the same. If someone doesn’t take care of himself, everyone else gets on his case. Everyone watches out for each other. So I truly hope that this will be my last year here...

Our conversation is interrupted by the hoarse voice of a man in a blue uniform.

“What happened, Vasilich?” Alexander asks.

“The instruments indicate that the Taymyr coming up behind us!”

A new subject of conversation starts among those assembled on the bridge. Again they begin throwing around slang so that I can barely follow what they are on about. Apparently, some sort of ship named Taymyr, has gone off course and is for some reason overtaking us...

After a bit of questioning, I discover that, in the lower reaches of the Khatanga River, this small passenger ship is – in summer and fall – the only transport that can get you to the distant reindeer-breeding villages. Aboard Creative, everyone knows every crew member of the Taymyr. Over the years, the two crews have developed feelings of professional responsibility toward each other. If something happens, you need to help. And if not, then you simply need to exchange the latest news over the radio. Which is always interesting when you are working on a desolate river.

Viktor Vasilyevich Nartov

Senior mechanic, 62, Kursk Oblast

Creative is the oldest ship and I am the oldest mechanic. My family name is also ancient. It dates back at least to Peter I. Engineer Nartov invented a lathe.

I’ve worked thirty years in the merchant marine. Of course, I don’t remember every season, but I do remember my first ones very clearly. I studied at the Kherson Naval School. After I finished there, they sent me to the Far East. I worked there four years, got married. There was no housing, so I left, which I regret to this day. It’s a fine region.

I moved to Ukraine. I lived there, but the North beckoned. Since I was young, I had dreamed of living in the North... At first I wanted to go to Murmansk, but there was this newspaper, Water Transport, and I read of something called the Khatanga Sea Port. So I thought, “Why not go to Khatanga for two or three years? I will earn enough for a car and then come back.” Back then cars were in short supply. I arrived in Khatanga and I stayed. That was 1984.

I worked on various ships. First on a floating crane, then on Classy, on Creative, and on Volgodon. After I retired, I realized I wanted to return to the water. The port boss, Sergei Viktorovich Zverev, invited me to be the senior mechanic on Creative. He said I would work one season, and they would buy a new tug. But it turned out differently. Instead of buying a new ship, we replaced the diesel generators, the refrigeration units, and the steering mechanism. The ship is once again in good operating condition, and will continue to work.

It’s probably time I started wrapping things up with the sea. The wife left. The children are grown and living their lives. I think it may be time for me to help raise the grandchildren, but the North holds me back.

It seems like there is nothing here to hold on to. I want to go to my family, to the mainland.* But you’re there for a month, living the landlubber’s life, and the North starts calling again. Especially in the spring. The geese fly north and I want to follow them.

In Khatanga, spring is the time for ship repairs. After winter passes, the ship is mired in snow, iced over... And you start to bring it back to life... First, in April, we fire up the boiler. Then, when things warm up on board, we turn on the water and the power. It’s still too early to set sail, because it’s still winter. Then begins the thawing – this is when we use chain saws to cut away the ice, in order to get to the propellers. It’s a very difficult process. The niche in the ice can be three or four meters deep. We remove the propellers that have been liberated from the ice and begin to overhaul the entire propulsion-steering mechanism. And, if we need to, we overhaul the engine as well.

At the very end, when you see how the ship has come back to life and gotten underway, you are happy for it, as if it were your child.

The Taymyr passes on our port side. Nartov looks out the porthole, and I exit the bridge onto the upper deck of Creative and wave. The passengers of the Taymyr wave in reply. I hear the captain and Zvyagin turn on the radio. The connection is good, as is the news from the Taymyr. They worried for nothing.

The fall sunshine breaks through the low northern clouds, shining a golden light on the opposite bank of the river and the caps of the waves in between. Despite the cold wind, the people on the deck of the Taymyr do not return to their cabins. I continue to watch them and they watch me. The adults smoke cigarettes, and two little boys exchange glances and laugh uproariously at something. Perhaps at me? I smile at them and again wave.

“Ivan, zip up!” I hear the worried voice of Viktor Vasilyevich yell from the bridge. I realize I came out on deck without a hat and am suddenly very cold. My cheeks and fingers are so cold that I almost cannot feel them. With difficulty, I use my stiffened fingers to close up my coat, and remain on deck until the Taymyr is but a small blue dot on the horizon...

The tug Creative transports multi-ton containers, equipment, and loose freight. It may even carry out rescue operations. For example, to save a ship that had some sort of equipment failure. There have also been instances when the tugboat has employed its 16-milimeter-thick steel hull like an icebreaker of sorts, accompanying ships with less substantial hulls to the port of Khatanga.

And yet, Creative’s regular and most essential job is transporting coal barges from Khatanga Gulf to the village of Khatanga.

This is how it normally works. Huge sea cargo ships travel the Northern Sea Route to the Laptev Sea. And while such a floating fortress can easily withstand high waves and any northern wind, it cannot go further into the Khatanga Gulf. The giant ships have too deep a draft to sail up the river. Smaller river-going vessels and tugs are required to off-load the coal, and Creative is one of them.

The next day, I enter the bridge to speak with the captain, and find him lost in thought. His eyes – red from sleeplessness – stare back tired and motionless. I ask what happened. It turns out we have reached the most challenging section of our trip at the very moment when the tide was going out. We are at a place on the navigational charts known as Knyazevka. The depth here is just 3.1 meters. And passing through Knyazevka at low tide is very dangerous. The sonar indicates that there is less than half a meter of water beneath our ship. One careless move and we will run aground. Therefore, the best option is to weigh anchor and wait for the tide to come in.

“It appears, Ivan, that you may be with us for a few more days at a minimum. We could have transferred you to the Khariton Laptev, which is already returning from the gulf, but the waves were too big for us to moor alongside another ship.

The captain compares the readings on the sonar and then looks out the porthole, to keep an eye on the barges tied to our stern. We agree to meet in the wardroom in a few hours.

The ship has a crew of 12: captain, first mate, senior mechanic, second mechanic, third mechanic, two minders, two sailors, a boatswain (in charge of equipment and crew), cook, and electrician. Nearly all of them have come to Khatanga from somewhere quite distant. Some are from beyond the Urals, meaning Krasnoyarsk Kray, Novosibirsk, Chelyabinsk; some are from European Russia (Vologda, Yaroslavl, and Samara Oblasts). It is their first, and perhaps last season working together. Yet the atmosphere on Creative makes it seem like the crew have known each other for a long time and certainly that they have been friends for longer than just a single navigational season. Subordination only applies during the working hours. At dinner time, the captain sits at the same table as his crew, and in the evenings he plays backgammon with the sailors.

Vyacheslav Viktorovich Vaynonen

Captain, 42, Cherepovets

For a crew to work well, you need them to all be on friendly terms. Now, for example, we are all drinking tea and laughing together. I feel that this is better than going about with gloomy faces. There is no alternative to having a sense of humor on board ship. And there is another important quality, without which it is impossible to work harmoniously: honesty. For me, actually, this needs to come first. It may be that Fate has put us together for a short period of time, but as long as these people are alongside one another, they should be honest and upstanding with each other. Well, and professionalism of course. Each person should carry out his work well.

Psychologically, it can be very difficult to get rid of a team member, if that person isn’t getting the job done. Sometimes it is enough to have a conversation for the individual to understand everything. But sometimes, even during the course of such a conversation, you understand that this person is not going to change... You realize that perhaps this person, with the passage of time, will be sorry for what has happened. But that’s life. It’s work. Sometimes you have to make difficult decisions.

Do they teach you in “captain’s school” how to dismiss people?

No. That is only gained through experience.

Tell me how you became a captain.

My father worked in the merchant marine. From a young age I sailed on ships with him. That surely had an influence on my choice of profession.

I graduated from the Leningrad River School. Then I worked in shipping in the northwest region, on freight ships and tugboats. We had routes from St. Petersburg to Astrakhan, along the Volga, along the Volga-Don Canal, along the Kama River...

From the beginning I set my goal: to achieve something in my career. I went step by step: third navigator, second navigator, first mate, captain. Everywhere, as I gained experience, I also gained knowledge. I became a captain at 30 or 31, I don’t recall exactly. And then, after I had sailed the same route for the fifth or sixth or seventh time, I started to tire of it... It became clear that I needed to find something new.

And you found it in the North? What made the biggest impression on you here?

When you hear the word “south,” you think of beaches, swimsuits, Carnival in Rio de Janeiro. When you hear “north,” you think of something severe, silent. I arrived in Khatanga on the 30th of May. Back home, it was warm at the time, yet here there was still ice everywhere. It was especially difficult to get used to the polar day. But I knew what I had signed up for. The Bay of Pronchishcheva was very interesting. We saw walruses and polar bears up close. Not many people can say that.

Now you are a caption who has been in the North. So what is your next step? What does the ship of your dreams look like?

The financial component of work is not insignificant... Yet, my ideal ship would be one that works year round, that is docked near my home, and never sails away! (Laughs)

Would you take your family on such a ship?

When I worked in my home latitudes, I took my wife and daughter with me. Then, when my son was born, I began working further from home. But I would not want my son to come on board with me. He might suddenly take a liking to it. And I would not want him to follow in my footsteps. Let him find something else for himself... Right now he is six and wants to become a surgeon. Before that, he said he dreamed of working in the circus.

Are you disillusioned by your profession? You don’t seem like that sort of person.

It’s not disillusionment. It is just that, from the perspective of family life, it can be very difficult. The only thing, it seems to me, that one should never become accustomed to is separation. Because home will nonetheless beckon you. It is always, constantly beckoning. This is probably that notorious dose of romanticism that everyone talks of.

Even now, I would really like to see my family. But Vasilich speaks the truth when he says you go home and at first are so happy: “Hurrah, hurray! How fantastic!” But a bit of time passes and you start to long for the ship. Because here we are our own masters. You make independent decisions and feel free. The freedom here on Creative is greater than in some factory or other place.

It is difficult to imagine a spectacle more beautiful than a September storm late in the evening in the Khatanga Gulf. If you are not afraid of high waves and go out on deck, then in the distance you can see the lights of ships that, like us, have weighed anchor. The lights on the ocean freighter Yermak burn brightest. And next to it there is the somewhat smaller freighter, Sergei Asyamov. It also shines brightly, not unlike a star or the sparks from a bonfire. Actually, more like a star. For together the two ships form a small constellation. The Sergey Asyamov has been off-loading coal from the Yermak for a few hours now.

We are next in line to receive our load of coal... But, knowing that I need to be back in the town as soon as possible, the captain has decided not to wait our turn. He wants to off-load me onto the Sergei Asyamov, as soon as it has filled its holds. I wait with Vyacheslav Viktorovich and the sailor Misha for a signal to come over the radio. To keep track of the barges and better see the neighboring ships, not a single light is on in the bridge. Only on the navigational instruments do green and orange arrows, numbers and maps flicker.

Shortly, two lights begin to separate from each another on the radar screen. They also separate on the horizon amid the raging waves (like two stars or satellites in the night sky). Having finished loading, the Sergei Asyamov has begun moving in our direction.

I say goodbye to all the members of the crew. The ship’s cook, Marina Mikhailovna, stuffs some fresh-baked rolls into my backpack: “You’ll need these on the Asyamov.” I shake hands with the sailors – Dima, Misha, Demyan, Alexander. The assistant mechanic, Pavel, and the electrician Oleg write out their addresses and phone numbers. We want to get together again some time.

Knowing that I will write an article and that I am interested in ship slang, each crew member feels obligated to contribute a few words from their lexicon. They quickly dictate more entries and I barely manage to write down their words: цепура (“little chain”) – anchor chain; дед (“grampa”) – senior mechanic; дракон (“dragon”) – boatswain; электрон (“electron”) – electrician; удавы, анаконды, концы (“boas, anacondas, ends”) – moorings.

“Ivan, you ready?!” the captain says, interrupting our farewells. “The Asyamov can’t dock with us because of the high waves. Let’s go on the dingy! I’ll take you!”

I no longer see the family man who misses his home. With a few quick words, Vyacheslav Viktorovich issues the necessary commands. The winch grinds. The dingy is dropped into the water. A life jacket lands in my hands.

“Put it on, quickly.”

A minute later we are heading out in the dingy toward the freighter Sergei Asyamov. The waves are so huge that even the large ship is barely visible beyond them. Our Creative rapidly disappears behind us as well. There are only the bright beams of the searchlights, directed at one another from the two ships, in order to show the captain where to sail...

“It’s good that the Asyamov chose to stand upwind from us and block the gales!” Vyacheslav Viktorovich yells in my ear, but I can barely hear him.

It is like being in a dream. The waves, the beams of the searchlights, and the tiny dingy, which could at any moment be pulverized into woodchips. It’s a good thing that I decided at the start that nothing bad would happen. Now I can just look around, memorizing all that I see, so as to be able to recount it to others... How beautiful it is here.