Odesa of My Childhood #5: “The Beach”

THE BEACH

For as long as I can remember, it always drove me insane before an outing at the beach when my mother, at six in the morning, would bang her pots and pans. And all for what? So that after a few hours on the shore, on a giant patchwork plateau, the sight and smell of hungry beachgoers could be amplified by mounds of chops, mountains of Odesan sprat cutlets, fried zucchini generously seasoned with garlic, eggplant rolls stuffed with tomatoes, cheese, mayonnaise and, again, the invariable garlic. All this riot of taste and aroma had to be piled up on a variety of saucers, sparkling like the gilded, sweeping—and such familiar—signature Obschepit.*

Marching Orders

At this time, no one was allowed to sleep. There was work for everyone. Mom’s imperious gestures indicated to Dad what he was meant to do. In fact, she could, without changing her facial expression, indicate the direction in which someone disagreeing with her should go. I always got garlic duty – large heads of garlic with little tiny points. Looking at each other with resignation, my dad and I consoled ourselves with the hope and promise of a bright, full-bellied future at the beach, which was not in fact eons away, but only a couple hours from our point of torment. 

Our endurance, as usual, was rewarded with the words, “Everything is ready now! Let’s go!” Is it worth mentioning that the route to the train stop was more akin to the progression of a wealthy eastern caravan? As soon as we crossed the threshold of our home and traversed the yard, we were clearly not the only ones who got ready to splash, dive, and tumble in the waves of the Black Sea.

The women assumed the roles of controllers, watching like hawks to ensure that the male portion of the pack didn’t linger around the barrels of beer, two of which lay on our path. My peers were sadly trudging along – always “within their mother’s sight.” 

Train Ride Rules

Luckily, our stop was the last one, which meant we could comfortably rest our string bags, packs, and bottles of fruit juice and beer on the rear platform. Grownups did not allow us to occupy seats, and therefore we were obliged to guard the shared goods. Naturally, we kept a close eye on each other, so that a growling stomach wouldn’t prompt someone to commit a crime by forcing them to pick open a newspaper wrapper in which breakfast sandwiches with Dutch cheese or sausage were hidden. Offenders were harshly punished by means of confiscation of spoils and distributing them among more honest brothers. 

The beach always greeted us with the scent of algae that had perished during the night storm, the ruddy sight of boiled shrimp, hearty bellows of “sugar roosters on a sti-i-i-ick!”, bouncy balls attached to rubber bands and wrapped in cheap multi-colored foil – and with a general desire to quickly plunge into the gentle waves of the familiar sea. 

Sensory Overload

On the central alley leading to the sandy strip of the beach, two pensioners enthusiastically played the trumpet and accordion with remarkable regularity. I have always associated wind instruments exclusively with funeral processions, so the languorous “Bésame Mucho” shaded by convulsive sighs of the accordion sounded as if it was escorting the vacationers not to the beach, but to the last journey.

Long before our arrival, the beach was thoroughly transformed into a patchwork blanket—the edges of each beach towel tightly pressed against each other. The lucky ones managed to occupy the ace spots closer to the water. Other beachgoers had to wander through the maze of bodies lying flat in the sun, in order to at least “touch a bit of water.”

Immediately upon arrival, while the women discussed events unbeknownst to others and unpacked the samobranka, the men rushed to the water, dividing themselves instinctively into two groups. The first group with hiccups and witticisms, leaping at breakneck speed over the bodies of sunbathers, galloping through the shallow Luzanovka beach waters, unceremoniously breaking into the possessions of Poseidon; the second group gradually entering the water to the ankles, carefully testing the temperature, and sighing  at the sign “air temperature: +95F, water temperature: 78.8F.” We, however, roamed around the outskirts of “Mom-territory,” hoping that we would manage to grab something edible even before the communal meal was announced. 

Photo Opp

Nevertheless, it was not that simple. Before the first sandwich fell into the traps we set, the sun’s rays suddenly disappeared into the shadows of Uncle Misha, in whose hands the Zenit camera gleamed menacingly. Noticing this particular miracle of domestically manufactured technology, the adults immediately grouped around the refreshments. Under the scope of the lens,  all faces without exception wore a wooden and impenetrable expression. The tension reached its limit when the shutter clicked.

“Only five frames left in the film!” said Uncle Misha meaningfully and hid the camera in its case. After that, we all relaxed, calmly let smiles spread across our faces, and with a clear conscience made a raid on the samobranka. In true military fashion, we stuffed ourselves quickly, severely, and densely – stuffed ourselves until we had difficulty breathing, until joint lethargy, until overtaken by light hiccups.  And only then, under the tender looks of our mothers, we boisterously headed for the water, where all signs of civilization instantly vanished from us. 

The frail-looking Vadik always got stuck in the sand, five or six meters short of his target. Sashka, however, managed to flick him on the ear while running, give him two or three kicks on his butt, and still be the first to jump into the wave rolling onto the shore. Having plunged headlong into it, he’d immediately look around for a very sturdy threat from our company. The threat was called Ivanushka. When this neat and tidy, 172-pound boy shouted “cannonball!” even the seaweed scattered in fear before him. And we simply lined up behind him and tried to sink him with our combined mass, though we knew in advance that even adults wouldn’t be able to handle such a float. 

The only thing that could drive us out of the water were the loud incantations of the older generation, who had simplified their cultural speech with the help of light alcoholic drinks, warmed by the hot summer night. 

Sun-Seared Slumber

Reluctantly we left the elements from which our distant, unintelligent ancestors once emerged. We plopped down exhausted on our mats, listlessly declining offers to fortify our strength with a serving of salad and a perfectly fried chicken leg. And–we fell soundly asleep. Sometimes our parents forgot to turn us around in the sun, and then we ourselves turned into perfectly fried chicken legs. The sun was doing its southern work and by evening we couldn’t even stand to throw light T-shirts over our shoulders. The skin on my back felt like tightly stretched cellophane. And by the time we got home, after the kefir-sour cream procedures, the skin peeled off, if not in shreds, then in a whole sheet.

Sashka was the most susceptible to the effects of magical ultraviolet radiation, and the next day he bragged to everyone about the bleeding wounds under his knees, and we all envied these beach wounds. No joke, at such moments he became the center of attention of a group of flirtatious girls, who either tried to apply plantago balm to his injured spots or slapped him for his playful hands, which were already living their own lives at that age.

I haven’t been to the beach much lately. But every time I do, I remember that time. It’s as if echoes of those feelings and emotions reach me from another world. So powerful–then. Barely distinguishable–now. And I wish I could wake up at least once at six in the morning from the clatter of my mother’s frying pans, where the pre-beach mood of an impatient schoolboy languishes in anticipation.

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FOOTNOTES

Obschepit: Obschepit is an example of portmanteau, the common literary device when parts of two words are conjoined to carry both meanings. A type of neologism, some portmanteaus reveal changes in society, e.g., Brexit (Britain + exit), email (electronic + mail), Wikipedia (Wiki + encyclopedia), motel (motor + hotel), Putler (Vladimir Putin + Adolf Hitler), and the WWII ration spam (spiced + ham). This practice was extremely common during soviet times when language was used to “recreate” society and its thinking habits. In this case, “obschepit” derived from soviet-era words for “communal” +”eating” as cafeterias became common, especially in cities such as Odesa.

Samobranka: from Slavic folklore, a magical tablecloth on which food miraculously appears upon unfolding.

 Luzanovka: name of a popular beach in Odesa.