It was in 2003. I was 12 years old.

The May holidays in the working Ural town were always celebrated with bitterness and these were no exception. My father invited me to go with him and his chickens on a spring fishing trip to the Pacific Bay of a beautiful Tajik river. How could I refuse?

Taiga has just taken off its winter chains and blossomed under the hot May sun. It was very warm and good. We walked the path, the men joked, told each other something, and I went and listened.

By the way, such a company we went fishing very often and nothing predicted trouble. When we arrived, the fishing began. I was given a whip and I went to catch the oak. I will not be describing the events in the middle of the day. By the time I came to the fire, my father and the men were already in shape. I knew with my childhood brain that the way back would take a long time and told my father that it was time for us to go home. To my surprise, he agreed and we left. But not the path that came, but decided to throw the "direction".

The "direction" was long and painful. The whole taiga was swollen by the melting snow and in some places cold streams had to be forced by spring water. We managed this and went out to the edge of the forest, where apparently the Batty forces left. He said he would rest a little. He lay down on the grass, put his backpack under his head and... fell asleep!

I turned around him like a whale trying to awaken a relative. But it was all in vain. The mind is obscured by the sameon, and the head is burnt with the May sun. He slept sweet.

Since I, like any probably boy, had a fist in the ass since birth, I just couldn’t sit next to my sleeping father. I had to go home. I pulled out of the valve of my backpack a piece of berry wrapped in a pipe and scratched it with a knife: “Dad, I’ve gone home.”  I put it in his hand. Having moved a little on the spot, I still decided to go home oriented towards the river, because I knew that my house was below the river.

In May, the river naturally poured all the shores, it had to go holding to the edge of the floodwater. A couple of times in my way flooded groves arose, one of them I successfully bypassed, and the other - the largest forced in short rubber boots. Naturally, I was all dirty and dirty. At seven o’clock in the evening, I finally got home. He opened the apartment, cooked peelings and sat down to dinner.

At 8 p.m. my mother came from work and asked where my father was. I had to tell her everything from the beginning. She arrived in a light shore (sorry for the mat, but I can't describe it differently) and said that when he came, he was over. At twelve o’clock the father came, sober and in a fierce shock. When he saw me, he said, “Yes, you’re home! I’m in the garage to live” and without waiting for my mom’s rugi went into the garage. He lived there for about a week.

This is a true family folklore. We often remember and laugh. And my father is very proud that I guessed to leave a note on the barrel.