Lunch

The Emergency Bodies
and jargon. Marines of Emergency Service

The weak three-point storm is perceived somehow even epically, when you are on the deck and look and try not to lag behind the unconsciously swirling horizon. But here in the cabin, the cat turns a man into a prisoner of some furious children's attraction. Oh, there would be a window for orientation, though small, but there are no windows and can not be, because the ship is terribly military.
The stinking smell of the kitchen can’t be ignored.
And on top is good: the wind, the salt splashes in the face, the cap that flew into the Baltic Sea... Romance.
I, clinging to the chilly perils, almost shouted to the commander of our ship, a man young but already captainly bald.
Far away, five kilometers away, the same shipwreck talked about as ours, and the combat task he had was similar: to arrive at the specified time at the specified point of a distant city on Neva.
The commander shouted, pointing his hand to the distance:
- This is the corvette "Large-sighted" (although he may have called it in a different way, I will not mention it, but no less bravo) there the commander serves my fellow, a good man. Oh, his officers had already eaten, it was time for us too.
I had nothing against lunch and we went to the officer cabin company.
Moving along the belly of the ship and trying not to hit the special glands that are spinning everywhere to spot and break the skull, I suddenly thought. For me, a man of deep land, here everything was a strange thing, at first I even thought that: "Huis", "Bak", "Balan" and "Ut" are all the names of sailors, and how it turned out that only Balan was the name...
But fucking how? How, from such a giant distance, our commander established with the naked eye that the lunch and the officer’s lunch had begun at the “Dalmatianship”?

We came to the officer cabin company, the cock here was almost not felt, and maybe the sea was slightly quiet.
White scrolls, forks, knives and music. Cleanly tasty and comfortable.
After lunch, I and my filming team went to the sailors to film and their unhappy meal.
No scatters, no scissors, not even music, but as it was, and the cat sharply intensified.
The sailors, holding the dishes in their hands, barely had time to catch the baskets with unsweetened compot leaving on the table.
In general, the unshakable shipyard traditions of the days of serfdom right, from the unusual, are immediately thrown into the eye. Some teams say, “Too!” “Come out to build, in working dresses!”
And toilets and dining rooms (pardon, gallions and cottage companies) are a separate topic. The "emergency body" under the threat of death cannot visit the Mitchman toilet, and the Mitchman officer. So I remember the German plaque dusty on the roof of my Lviv house: "nur für die deutschen - only for the Germans"

And here is this fierce catch, as if nature itself had invaded against the unfortunate sailors...
But the mystery with an officer's lunch at the distant "Dalomon", I didn't stand it and turned to the guys:
- Brothers, do you know what a ship does when officers go for lunch? Which flag is raised?
The sailors skillfully jongled the soup in the plates, the evil roasted, exhausted themselves and replied:
- When the officer goes to eat, the ship changes course, turns across the waves, chooses the desired speed, so that the stabilizers of the catch work better and then the talk like never happened. And when they are eaten, the ship again returns to the previous course, and also crashes as undermined to catch time. Then we, the dogs, command to eat lunch.
How do the circles ride on the table? Sometimes they even jump through a high border.