Chapter 3: The Kamchatka Coast, as Beautiful as a Painting - Arrival in Petropavlovsk
The brig ship Olga, 200 miles offshore from Kamchatka. August 17, 1865.
Our voyage is also finally coming to an end. After seven weeks of a long journey spent in cold, rainy, and rough weather, we will soon see land again and delight our eyes. For tired sailors, there could be no more longed-for sight than the land. Even as I write this now, I can hear the sounds of scrubbing and polishing from the deck, announcing that land is near. The ship is preparing itself to re-enter human society. As of last night, we were only 255 miles away from the port city of Petropavlovsk in Kamchatka. If this favorable wind continues, we are expected to arrive by noon tomorrow. However, this morning, the wind has almost completely subsided, so it may be delayed until Saturday.
Off Kamchatka, at sea. August 18, 1865, Friday.
This morning, a good wind is blowing. The brigantine has spread all its sails to catch the wind, and it is moving clumsily through the sea, enveloped in thick fog. In the fog, even the topgallant sails can barely be seen. If the wind continues and the fog clears, we may see land tonight.
It is 11:00 AM.
I have just climbed down from the topgallant mast. For the past three hours, I have been clinging to the backstay in an uncomfortable position, searching for land. Every time the ship sways slowly on the waves, it is swung back and forth like a large arc through the fog. It seems there are no clouds in the sky, but I can't even see objects that are as far away as three ships. Around the ship, gulls, albatrosses, skuas, cormorants, and white-faced storm petrels gather in flocks, and the surface of the water is full of jellyfish.
Noon.
30 minutes before, the fog began to dissipate. At 11:40 AM, the captain, who was looking at the horizon through a telescope, shouted in a bright voice, "Land! Land! Hooray!" That shout echoed throughout the ship, from the bow to the stern, and from the galley to the topgallant sail rigging. Bush, Mahood, and the lieutenant rushed towards the forecastle. The short, stooped stewardess ran out of the galley with both hands covered in flour dough and climbed onto the side of the ship. The crew members hurried up to the ropes, but only the man holding the helm remained calm.
Far ahead, on the horizon, two cone-shaped peaks appeared, their faint outlines glowing. Because they were so far away, only the white snow remaining in the deep valleys was visible, and because they were so indistinct, it was difficult to distinguish them from the blue sky beyond. These were Mount Vilyuchinsky and Mount Avacha on the Kamchatka coast, 100 miles apart. The captain looked through his telescope for a long time. Then, proudly gesturing towards the mountains, he filled us with patriotism and said, "Before your eyes is my country – the Great Russian Empire!" However, as the fog flowed back onto the ship again, he immediately abandoned his grand tone and shouted in a frustrated voice, "Chort znayet, shto eto takoy – only devils know what this is! It's truly mysterious! Fog, fog, nothing but fog everywhere!"
Item Content Chort znayet, chto eto takoye This is a phonetic transcription of the Russian words spoken by the lieutenant. The original English text adds "Only demons know what it is," and uses it to mean something incomprehensible.
Within less than 5 minutes, the last traces of the "Great Russian Empire" had disappeared. We descended below, filled with joy, and ate dinner. This excitement is something that someone who has never spent 46 days at sea in the North Pacific simply cannot imagine.
4:00 PM.
I am now fortunate enough to see land again. Thirty minutes ago, from the lookout on the topgallant mast, I noticed that the fog was beginning to clear. Then, a huge curtain of gray mist slowly rose up. The sea and the deep blue sky appeared, and the rosy light of the setting sun poured in, revealing an incredibly beautiful sight.
In front of me, the magnificent coastline of Kamchatka stretched for 150 miles from north to south. From the shimmering blue sea, large purple promontories jutted out and soared upwards. Here and there, white clouds clung, and wisps of fog like wool wrapped around them, and in some places, they deepened into a soft blue that shimmered faintly as they extended further back and upward, dissolving into the pure white snow on the high peaks. Two active volcanoes, one 10,000 feet and the other 16,000 feet tall, rose above the low mountain range, intertwined and pointed. The sharp white triangle of perpetual snow pierced the blue sky, and the foothills drew in the purple shadows of twilight. In that clear air, the high and rugged coastline seemed to be only 15 miles away. Like a beautiful mirage, it suddenly appeared as if rising from the sea.
Within less than five minutes, a curtain of gray mist covered the magnificent scenery and slowly descended again. The view gradually disappeared, to the point where we wondered if it was real or just a bright illusion designed to deceive us. Now, once again, we are enveloped in thick fog that is damp and clings to our skin, much like it has been almost all day.
Kamchatka, Petropavlovsk Port. August 19, 1865.
Last night, when it got dark, we thought we were about 15 miles from the Cape Povorotnui. However, the fog was thicker than ever before, and the captain didn't have the courage to get any closer. So, we turned the ship around and spent the entire night going back and forth between the open sea and the shore, waiting for sunrise and a clear sky that would allow us to approach the coast safely.
At 5 o'clock, I was on the deck. The fog was colder and thicker than ever before, and from within it, white waves whipped up by a stronger southeast wind approached. Just before 6 o'clock, it began to get light, and the brigantine turned its bow towards land, hoisted the foresail, jib, and topsails, and steadily started cutting through the water. The captain walked anxiously around the afterdeck with his telescope in hand, repeatedly scanning the horizon, looking upwards into the wind for any sign of improving weather. He feared running aground on the leeward shore in the dense fog, and several times nearly turned the ship around. However, finally, as things began to brighten and the fog cleared, the horizon clearly appeared. Surprisingly, not a single trace of land was visible in any direction. The long chain of blue mountains that seemed only an hour's sailing distance away last night, along with the high peaks covered in snow, the deep valleys, and the rugged headlands, were all...
"It dissolved into the thin air, leaving behind not even a single wisp of cloud."
Item Content Dissolving into the thin air This is a quote from Shakespeare's "The Tempest." It is used in a scene where mountains seen the previous night seem to have completely disappeared.
The only things that indicated the presence of land within 1,000 miles were the sheer number and variety of birds, which circled around our course with apparent curiosity, or splashed away from under the bow. Various theories were put forward regarding why that high, rugged coastline had suddenly disappeared. The captain attempted to explain it by saying we had been carried out to sea by a strong current running off the coast, and transported southeast during the night. Bush blamed the navigator on duty for falling asleep and steering the ship aground. On the other hand, the navigator insisted, with a completely straight face, that there was no land there at all; it was just a mirage. The lieutenant called it "pagannui," meaning something terrible or strange, but offered no solutions to the mystery. So, we were simply left where we were.
Item Content Pagannuy This is a Russian word that the captain uses to describe the situation. The original text in English says "terrible, awful."
From the southeast, a wind favorable to our course was blowing, and the ship was moving at 7 knots. At 8 o'clock, 9 o'clock, and 10 o'clock, we could not see any land. We had already traveled more than 30 miles since dawn. However, at 11 o'clock, the horizon gradually darkened, and suddenly, a steep promontory ending in sheer cliffs emerged from the thin fog just 4 miles away. There was immediately great excitement on board. To reduce speed, we furled the topgallant sails and changed course. In this way, we proceeded with the ship's hull facing the shore, drawing a large arc about 3 miles from the coast. The peaks of the mountains that would serve as landmarks were hidden by clouds and fog. It was not easy to determine exactly where we were.
To the left, in the distance, several more high, blue promontories were vaguely visible through the mist. However, no one could answer what those promontories were called, or where the port of Petropavlovsk was located. The captain brought nautical charts, a compass, and drafting tools onto the deck, spreading them out on the skylight above his cabin, and began measuring the bearings to various promontories. Meanwhile, we eagerly examined the shore with binoculars, each offering their own opinions about our location. Fortunately, the Russian coastal chart that the captain had was well-made. Soon, we determined our current position and the name of the first promontory we saw. We were just north of Cape Povorotnui, approximately 9 miles south of the entrance to Avacha Bay.
We straightened the masts, caught a steady wind from the southeast behind us, and proceeded on a new course. Within an hour, we saw the "Three Brothers," isolated rock formations that jutted out of the sea. We passed by rocky, steep islands. Around the islands, gulls were squawking, and ducks with beaks like parrots gathered in clouds. By 2:00 PM, we arrived off the coast between the two capes marking the entrance to Avacha Bay, where the village of Petropavlovsk is located.
The view at the entrance of the bay surpassed even our greatest expectations. From the rocky coastline, a valley covered in green grass stretched away into the distant mountains. Rounded cliffs were adorned with groves of yellow alder trees and dense thickets of dark green shrubs. On the warm, sheltered slopes of the hills, we could also see clusters of flowers. As we passed just below the cliff where the lighthouse stood, Bush exclaimed joyfully, "Hooray, there are clovers!" "Clovers?" The captain scoffed. "There's no way there would be clovers in the Arctic! "How do you know," Bush retorted sharply, "when you haven't even been there." "It looks like a clover to me. Besides," he said, peering through his telescope, "it is a clover." His face glowed as if relieved of a great anxiety about the harshness of the Kamchatka climate thanks to the discovery of the clovers. For Bush, clovers were a kind of plant-based thermometer that indicated temperature. And from just a small cluster of clovers, he imagined an entire temperate flora in a way that even Darwin might not have conceived.
The name Kamchatka, until then, was associated in our minds with everything barren and inhospitable. We never imagined that such a land could possess beautiful scenery or abundant vegetation. In fact, for all of us, it was questionable whether there were any plants other than mosses, lichens, and perhaps a little grass on this frozen ground, where life continued as an unfavorable struggle for survival. Therefore, you can imagine our joy and surprise when we saw the green hills covered with trees and lush vegetation. The valleys were whitened by clover, and small groves of beech trees with silvery bark added variety to the landscape. Even on the rocks, wild roses and monkshoods swayed gently. It was as if nature itself had tried to conceal the traces of past upheavals with a cloak of flowers, rooting in the cracks of the rocks.
A little before 3 o'clock, we saw the village of Petropavlovsk. Log houses with red roofs and bark roofs are clustered together in a small group. There is an unusual building: a Greek Orthodox church with a green domed roof. A narrow beach. A partially collapsed pier. Two whaling boats. And the remains of a ship that has had its equipment removed and is half-submerged. High, green hills form a large semicircle, enclosing the village in a band of trees, almost closing off the inlet of Avacha Bay where the village faces, a harbor as calm as a pond. We raised the foresail and mainsail, passed through the shadow of the surrounding hills, and silently slid into this pool-like harbor surrounded by land. At a place so close that you could reach the nearest house with a stone thrown, the sails were suddenly lowered. The hull shuddered, and the chains clanked as our anchor fell onto Asian soil.
[Illustration: Boy's long boots made of seal skin.]