We spent the night at the Falcon island. However, it called the island really is hard to say, but what it is, Falcon mountain — that’s for sure.
Here, on the sand under the cliff, one of the beaches kozmodemyantsev where they swim on motorboats.
Over Krucha is helped on the Volga winds rustle of pine and green-eyed fall behind them string the quiet sunsets, the crimson sunsets and blue in tuchevyh hills and venous streaks of lightning piercing gray water. And then hit hard in the shore wave reel, all increasing, spitting foam and angry that there is no place to go it alone, so loving space.
It happens here that numb from the heat completely windless days give way at night with glowing stars and a steady hum of the wind, which bends Chernoba on the island. It blows in a direction opposite to the daily committed. And so it takes a lot of still-hot days and nights of anxiety from the wind and waves in the deaf grumbling shores.
But this decline was quiet. Volga breathing and spanked carotid wave. From the southwest was a breeze. We sat listlessly at the dying fire, eating and listening ear Zakidaya. Peter Eccentrics have long winked at me, but did not interrupt.
— Well, and then it was, guys, is not funny, — I continued to cast aside, not paying attention to his antics. — Fills the trough reeled «koltsovku» and… My mother! .. Worms! .. You know, guys, worms left on the island! It’s not on the land fishing on the bank, I’m sorry, pee and under the nearest bush worms forget. Bush and the smell can be found. And you do not kosis not kosis, teetotal! The goat and the drinks, though-treat him. And the cigarette is not impossible to satiate. His mouth and pulls the bull horn Celite, if you do not give…
I digress… In general, I forgot worm guys. A buoy on the island, you know, not kilometers, but a little less. And if on the motor, and then, sorry, pea ferry pull… Do you even swing a paddle, and then against waves zapuzyrivay strokes. He swam, of course. Covered in sweat, his hands numb. I found worms… Oh, I forgot to say. Worms have prodigal some zatyril and went whistling. Stop! — I speak. — It is better to stop for good and not give her, and then your left foot until retirement in the bath to wash necessary!
A week later I did not have a flashlight, guys… But worms defended. He lay down on the beach, happy and contented. You know because, as they say in some of the stories: a joyous and happy, he returned home. I lit a cigarette in the wind, sun swim frown eye, and when I looked at the water, I saw a picture: my boat on the waves and sways like a business woman, in a hurry somewhere. All is good, but I have something in it. My mother! I’m right in the clothes and made a swim. And somewhere in the bushes near the prodigal grinds like a corncrake. Empathy seems to freak! What a laugh it would be better to fishing worms dug. I caught the boat, of course. Well, way back, you know… On the spot, almost buoy, anchors down, loaded the gear, waiting for fish. I sit back joyful and happy, smoke, smoke from the nose of the club, at the passing motorboat admire, that it turn over! (after all it is necessary to be sure to show off in front of fisherman «gum», Wave podtyknut!) Well, it is still good: wind blower, hisses… Hey, this is my boat hisses! Polundra ..! .. Red ball goes armature I cut the cords with feeders «koltsovkami». Well, way back, you know… Only this time it was a little bit faster. When got to the shore, I look in the bushes Prodigal baptized. He probably thought it was separately taken the ninth wave coming at him with incredible strength or water features in the foam moslaetsya.
Boat tighten the shore there were no forces guys. Chalyu her lead and fall to the sand. If drowned, it’ll get dragged by a rope. Not «Titanic» after all. In general, for half an hour bubble eyes climb out of the stern smoke coming pea, and all the air is not enough. Ecology is not the course… Finally catch his breath and look at the boat. It’s time to drown her, she hissed again as mother-in-law after payday. But no, swinging on the waves. And here again, just «Kazanka» proshpundyryala close, so that she turn over up bulyami! I climb into the water, I bend to the boat, and beneath her bottom commercials: w-shy, z-zu… as if from puncture grass. As soon as the creature gasoline slipped by, all was quiet… In vain, apparently, I was shot with anchors, rope cut. A false alarm went out. And out of the bushes Prodigal grin sympathetically and also swims eyes. He was two weeks torch is required.
So that the laws of physics have to know the guys. The river is not only the bottle floating sounds too spread, burylyayut bastards. Vibration, guys, — conviction concludes his story and cast aside thoughtfully raking coals decaying fire.
It darkens the sky over the river. It timidly poked the first stars become brighter and appear already shimmering loose points. It smells of warm water and fish, and did not subside ringing from long laughter. Silence starts, frightened, and then everything dies down for a moment. But again rises from the laughter, and over the river can be heard far away: «Zakida-a-second! Eye swell!»
Morning calm and transparent. Golden sun light cloud slurry. Spacious and wide around. It creates a feeling of spaciousness bulks hills opposite shore, dalyu misty horizon, where converge the Volga shore. The dark water sleeps high sky.
We Petya Chudakov anchor near the buoy. Showered saves on the anchor rope: attaches directly to the buoy, and the stern throws full length heavy boulder almost a pud. Wham!
— You cast aside, it would be better once the concrete pile tied, — grumbles Peter.
— But we’ll see when the will for that purr. You anchor, or what? They only schuryat belopuzyh gaff! — grins showered.
Versed in his household: fills the trough, spread podsachek, preparing gear, hang over the side tank, though, pah-pah, bad luck — soak it in advance, without fish.
Pelted something quieted. It lies in the boat, and the smoke swirls over it. Apparently, I am thinking, waiting for. Peter, his tongue hanging out, beckoning someone in the back of a heavy jig with lobe «dung beetles». Above mormyshkas him, cunning, povodochek tied with another tiny jig and maggot on the hook is white. The water is at rest, it’s time to catch a winter to remember.
Finally, given the current. Cooking gear. Threw the bowl with the porridge and cake. From feeders stick sprigs of fresh dill. It happens sometimes lures scent of fresh herbs spoiled fish can be, their uniqueness and piquancy. On the feeder cables through the slots put on heavy rings. The holes rings freely walks the main line. And beyond the rings on the course of the long twisted undergrowth with povodochkami and hooks. The jet itself, in a grain of warm porridge and cake in the flavor of fennel and sunflowers play hooks with worms and maggots. And upstairs, in a boat almost vertically installed onboard fishing rods hard not to nod in winter-lodge. On them, twitching to the beat of waves and fast jets, suspended small but sonorous bells.
All… Gear set. Reclining in close boat, pushing his feet into each other, and watch in fascination at the lodge. The flow is accelerated, it starts to expand our little boat, and then there is the fishing line «koltsovok» It begins to approach dangerous. Hooks are inevitable in this situation, and we tightens one anchor cable. Boat aligned. keep it up…
It does not take ten minutes, and already showered flaps landing net. «Took! — shouts. — No…» — already in despair. Big bream, flashing gold rush from landing net and goes vsplesnuvshis surface.
— I had to sum up from the bottom, — lazily advises Peter.
— Bottom-bottom, I know myself, but that could not resist, I will. I have not caught, — justified showered in bitterness.
We understand it.
Tuk-tuk, trink, ring! — jerks cock Petya. Op! Comrade hooking and throwing udilnik gently pulls the fish at the line. Bream! More kilogram. He splashed heavily in a wide Volga SADC amazement utykayas into the net and covered with crimson drops. Kicked, apparently, the pressure drop. I raised it in the cage and admire the fish. Good! And Peter pokes me.
— Enough, the evil eye! Peck will not be!
And me and once his mind. My Storozhok «koltsovki» sharply straightened and bent again, beating already nervous and strong. Bell comes ringing. In his hand crawl fishing line, which became stubborn and resilient. Somewhere in the depths of her hangs heavy big fish, tossing and turning on the course and stubbornly disagrees. Slowly I tighten it, and Peter prepares podsachek. Took! Yet another bream. Well, a little smaller, though bream, golden and dark but for the Mother, maybe because with the depth raised. This is not a coastal silver bream-plate.
So catch. That showered, then Peter, then I’m a no-no and yes poddernem white bream, occasionally Yazikov hit the nozzle with the raid, forcing jingle bell and shaking udilnik boat. And in the midst of fishing, we taxied to the motorboat.
— How you doing, man?
— Nothing, pulls a little.
— More than five did not have caught?
Uh, see granted fishing control… And they — right to cast aside. Though not GIMS, and faces a fine for being attached to a buoy. Cast aside long looked at their identity, and then hoisted:
— Lord, ugh, comrades, that is, guys, so I rearranged a minute! I, edrit through rocker only friend the end of the file and a berth for a sweet soul, but a buoy me your dog that the fifth leg! — and pours his village rhymes with school materkom. And there fell jokes. Departing servicemen, waving goodbye and wished good luck. About five kilos of rules and did not recollect. Also because people. Moreover, the day off.
Alexander Tokarev23 June 2015 at 14:28