.. Everything that is produced at domestic factories is not assembled, but adjusted, irrigated with labor sweat. So it happened with my purchase …
On a quiet June morning, our driver Sasha and I unloaded my new Ob-3 at one of the Kokshay bases. The solemnity of the moment was appreciated only by a shabby dog of a philosophical appearance, who got out of a plywood booth. He gave a proprietor bark and tried to raise his hind leg above the virgin blue side of the boat, but was driven out in disgrace.
Anyone who thinks that one has only to open the instructions, and in half an hour your boat will be assembled, is deeply mistaken. It would be too easy for a Russian person accustomed to struggle with difficulties. Everything that is produced at domestic factories is not assembled, but adjusted, irrigated with labor sweat. So it happened with my purchase. The screws stubbornly did not turn, the sheathing sheets, under which the foam was stuffed for buoyancy, swelled ugly, and the plexiglass creaked and cracked with teeth when trying to drive it into the grooves and screw it to the arcs. On top of that, closer to noon, the boat got hot from the sun, and I already looked like a fish in it, melting in a frying pan. But, nevertheless, the hour has come when my brand new “small boat”, having rolled down a steep sandy slope, flopped onto the water and swayed on it. The setting sun was reflected in the windshield many times. The whole “figure”, the position of the boats betrayed her tendency to move forward quickly. The predatory hull lines with a protruding stem were designed to cut tight jets of water. The only thing missing was the propulsion …
Perestroika had been sweeping across the country for a long time, and therefore outboard motors were not produced. At least in the right amount. Against the background of the building of an even newer society, this fact was of little significance, but, nevertheless, it annoyed me, an average man who wants to attach a simple internal combustion engine to his childhood dream. My impatience was so great that in the next few days I bought a shabby-looking “Vortex-20” from the base guard. In my naughty imagination, I already saw a boat planing over the waves and myself at the wheel of this beauty. In this vision, a white breaker was always present, tearing from under the stern.
They had to abandon the steering wheel, which looked like the steering wheel of an aircraft: I needed another adjustment of a certain bracket for remote control, and therefore I had to control the boat, as the unhurried Volga fishermen usually do: the tiller of the motor from right to left. With the breaker, the situation was also not quite the same as in dreams. The old man “Whirlwind”, having got really excited, was still pulling me alone, foaming the green Volga water behind him, but under a more solid load, he quacked embarrassedly and noticeably slowed down – it was piston like an old heart. In fairness, it should be said that the watchman honestly warned me about this during the sale.
So, the boat-light-winged dream is equipped, the motor is bought and, shining with a freshly painted cap, it is suspended, screwed with clamps to the transom, the certificate for the right to drive is received. But only a naive Aksak fisherman, who only needs a can of worms and a rowan twig for fishing, could think that my boat was ready to sail. No and no again! It turned out that the owner of a small vessel simply cannot live without the mysterious “end of Aleksandrov”. The rules explicitly warned about this, otherwise … In addition, it was required to make and purchase a lot of things. For some reason, the motor wanted to run on gasoline and loved, the old gourmet, oil and exoticism in the form of a negro. In addition, it turned out that feed the bream and its other fat-lipped relatives with buckets of porridge-complementary foods, otherwise these animals will not fit your hooks a mile away! Volga fishing is a greedy pagan deity – demanded and demanded sacrifices.
But all the troubles are over. “Whirlwind” roared and carried me out of the backwater “into the expanse of the river wave.” The Volga was wide and wet as always. She had already become accustomed to the fact that various objects fell into her for a long time, be it a young, sharp-chested princess or a bottle of Pepsi-Cola. The seagulls floated on the waves and thoughtfully ate small fish. They did not realize that they were swallowing tulka, unprecedented in these places, that had risen from the lower reaches of the Volga, overcame a cascade of dams, and all in order to be eaten by a local modest bird, which does not care what to swallow.
Above were thick clouds with a flirty pink frill. The reddened morning sun peeked out from behind them. On the left bank the ancient Kokshaisk was waking up, the streets of which were already roaming anxious dogs and summer residents.
The motor sang steadily, the stem regularly cut the water that splashed on the windshield, and my soul was torn from my chest. At such moments, everything is forgotten, even the troubles in search of the notorious “end of Aleksandrov”, which turned out to be an ordinary rope with a weight and a float.
Alexander Tokarev and fishx.org
I recommend to read:
Light and budget boats
Running in the engine and some fishing
Wings … aft
Share with your friends!