I paddled down the Kharkiv River under an open sky.
The wind was calm. The sun shone brightly. The world was peaceful.
And then it wasn’t.
An explosion erupted suddenly less than 2 kilometers away. A smoky-black mushroom sprouted over the city skyline to the north. I was completely exposed in the middle of that wide section of river. Without the typical city architecture and complexes to shield me, the volume and feeling of the percussion were overwhelming.
I could feel them in my blood.
I heard the deep whistle of a projectile, which told me there’d be another strike. It came just as swiftly, a double tap. Another mushroom of black smoke joined its misbegotten twin at the same location in the skyline.
“Of course this f*cking happens when I don’t have my phone on me,” I shook my head in wonder, still staring at the smoky sky.
Just an hour before, I had been chilling on a tourist beach with my girlfriend Sonya at Акважур (Akvazhur), a refuge for the people of Kharkiv from the oppressive heat and trauma of these dog days of summer and war. The dogs of war keep barking, but the people of Kharkiv have long since become used to them. If they couldn’t adapt, then they would’ve left like everyone else.
It was on this beach, a lean luxury afforded to the survivors, that I decided to rent a paddleboard for an hour. Sonya didn’t want to come, so I was left to my own devices, which, in my general experience, means something crazy is about to happen. Clad only in my red swim-shorts, I began to ease my way into the rhythm of the paddle, still close to shore and in sight of the beach packed with Ukrainian friends and families, with bars and recreation areas worthy of weekend warriors.
I tried to wave to Sonya, but she didn’t see me.
I paddled across the river. The speed at which I managed to paddle afforded me the arrogance to go further out. I continued on with the wind and current at my back under the overpass at Heroiv Pratsi. A part of me worried that I might be going too far out to get back in time for my rental, but I decided that if I did go over the limit, I could always just pay more.
It was only 250 UAH ($6.25) after all…
The other side of the river was sheltered from the wind. Its serene beauty was humbling. It wasn’t the Dnipro River, but the homely houses and cabins along the shore felt simple and welcoming. The world was surreal, and I stopped just to breathe it in for a little while. I made my peace with the world and kept rowing down the river.
As I drifted a little closer to shore, I glimpsed a shirtless fisherman casting his line into the water. There had been many fishermen along the banks of the river, even near Акважур, but something about this one was different.
At first, I thought he was just wearing khaki shorts.
But then I saw his tiny penis.
And then I saw his naked wife helping him fish.
Their bronze skin made them look like twins. Garbed in golden sun they almost looked like spirits of the harvest. Their demeanor wasn’t at all sexual, but casual in the extreme, like they’d been naked all their lives, and would look stranger in clothes.
“Huh, well, guess they’re just a liberated couple. Good for them,” I thought to myself.
But then I saw their friends.
“This is a god-damned tribe of nudists!” I realized.
The first couple had made their fishing hole in a secluded spot on the bank, somewhat obscured by the reeds and tall grass, but the rest of their gathering was a little less secluded atop a little hill nearby at the tip of a peninsula. Here were more children of the sun, bronze-tanned and middle-aged, letting it all hang out for only a loving God to judge. There were probably 7, including the first couple, maybe more. Pretty sure I saw about 3 women and 4 men. The area in between the fishing spot and the gathering could also have hidden more naked forms behind the grass.
“Welcome to Europe,” sardonically crossed my mind.
I nodded to the fisherman respectfully as I passed.
“This is the kinda shit that happens to me,” I smiled.
The others just made eye contact with me from a distance before going about their day.
“Oh, man. Wait till I tell Sonya about this,” I grinned excitedly.
I continued paddling down the river a little further.
Once past the nudist peninsula, the whole section of river came into view.
“Should probably start heading back,” I muttered.
I took one last long look at the beautiful view before turning around.
That was when the bombs struck.
There was the first.
Then the whistling zoom of a projectile warping the air.
The second greeted us seconds later.
The river itself quaked and air whooshed across it. Smoke from two mushroom clouds rose over the horizon. I looked to my left to see the nudists gazing out at the smoky skyline. I expected to see maybe shock or surprise, but I just saw tired faces.
“Oh, man. This is gonna be a story,” I shook my head in disbelief.
I paddled back towards Акважур. I hurried, worried about further strikes.
My thoughts drifted to Sonya.
“I was kind of worried about being here in a public place like this, after everything that’s happened,” she told me earlier, when we had first arrived at the beach.
“Yea, I mean they’ve been hitting lots of recreation places lately,” I agreed.
“It’s crazy,” she sighed.
“They even hit that recreation area by the lake in that one village in Kharkiv Oblast,” I reminded her.
“Yea, that was a gender reveal party for a military family. It just goes to show that if you’re associated with the military, nowhere is safe. Russia has eyes everywhere,” she told me.
“Man, could you imagine if the beach gets hit today? That’d be INSANE!” I exclaimed.
“Let’s hope it does not happen,” Sonya agreed.
Thinking back on it now, I hoped that I wouldn’t see a plume of smoke rising up from the overpass. The consequences of such a strike would have been unimaginable. Luckily, no such plume came, and I kept rowing back at a good pace. Going underneath the overpass again was a trip. The cavernous area underneath felt ominous with its faint, yet ever-present rumble rippling through the concrete from the street above.
“What if they hit this while I’m down here?” I wondered.
I didn’t wait long enough to find out.
I rowed like crazy until I could feel the sky above my head. Once I was out of the overpass and into the open water, I began to calm down. Seeing that my world had not yet been destroyed, it was back to business as usual.
Welcome to Ukraine.
I decided I was a little hot and jumped in the water for a quick swim. I gazed at the Акважур beach in the distance. The scenes and sounds of people still vigorously swimming, laughing, and playing; despite the bombs falling all around them, was a testament to the Ukrainian Spirit. I mean, these people have been through so much hardship, and still manage to live and laugh more than most places in the “privileged” West.
And while people this far east have always found it hard to smile, when they let themselves go and no one’s looking, they smile just as warmly as the rest of us.
As I paddled closer to shore, I saw Sonya waving in the distance for me to return. I pulled up at the dock and gave up my paddle. Walking on the sand burned my feet because it was so hot. I started to run back to where Sonya sat with our towels on an old wooden beach-lounger that probably was made in the days of the Soviet Union.
She waved as I ran up.
“Finally! You’re back,” she hugged me. “Did you hear the explosions?”
I nodded excitedly, “You will not believe what happened!”
She continued, “The Russians have attacked the grid. The power is out at our apartment and much of the city. The metro is not working. I don’t know if the trams are still working.”
“Maybe we should just stay here and take a taxi later. There’s food and a bar, and everything’s chill here,” I suggested.
“We’ll see. I definitely want to stay here for now,” she replied.
“But babe, you will NOT believe what happened!” I got us back on track.
“Is it a long story?” Sonya raised her eyebrows.
“Well… I mean…” I began.
“Give me the short version of it,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You always want me to listen to every detail of your stories, and you never want to hear mine,” I laughed.
“Babe, your stories start like, ‘In 1873, my great-grandfather was born, and that’s how I ended up doing lots of drugs… which is how I ended up living in Mexico… which is how I got to Ukraine,’” she ripped on me.
“Okay, fine. I’ll try to make this quick,” I joked.
“Focus on the key details,” she insisted.
“So, I was out paddling on the river, past the overpass, and I sailed by this fisherman…” I started.
“Here we go again,” she shook her head impatiently.
“He was shirtless. Which is normal. Because most of the fishermen here are shirtless,” I continued, ignoring her.
“Get to the point, babe,” she warned.
“But then I noticed, that he was a little different. I thought he was wearing like, some kind of khaki-flesh-colored shorts, but then I saw his tiny penis,” I went on.
“What?” Sonya asked, surprised.
“He was NAKED!” I exclaimed.
“Hospeet,” she shook her head.
“Yea… and then I saw his naked wife! And his naked friends! It was a whole nudist clan!” I proclaimed.
“Cringe. I can’t believe they were doing that on the river. I mean what if a family or some child paddled that way?” Sonya asked aghast.
“I mean, they were pretty far-out. There was a reasonable amount of cover. Pretty sure they were locals. It felt like they came there regularly,” I explained.
“Freaks,” Sonya seethed.
“Do you think they would let us join their tribe?” I asked deadpan.
“Hospeet, no,” she replied.
“You don’t want to join the clan?” I asked emphatically.
“Nooooooo…” she moaned.
“Oh, well,” I shrugged.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Sonya grumbled irritably. “I’ve been waiting here for you with our stuff.”
I winced. I hadn’t thought of her needs in the slightest.
“Sorry,” I replied.
“It’s okay,” she nodded.
“How long was I gone?” I asked.
“Maybe 40 minutes,” she figured.
“Go to the bathroom! I’ll watch the stuff,” I assured her.
We spent the rest of the afternoon at the beach until it started to get cloudy.
“It’s supposed to rain tonight,” Sonya explained.
“Really? The weather’s been so crazy,” I replied.
“Yea,” she admitted.
“Welcome to Kharkiv,” I joked.
“Don’t make fun of Kharkiv,” she insisted.
We left Акважур and tried to see if we could still catch a tram. As luck would have it, we made a one-in-a-million score and managed to get ourselves onboard the last tram. But our luck turned when that tram stopped at Hidropark, and the female driver declared that was as far as she was going that day. When Sonya asked her how to get to Kyivskyy Station from there, the salty old lady just scowled at her silently.
“Ugh, I can’t believe she didn’t answer me,” Sonya seethed.
“Probably time for a cigarette,” I joked ironically.
However, my irony would soon become all too real as we watched the tram driver go around the little bend in front of us, turn off the tram, get out, and light up a cigarette.
“Classic Ukraine,” I declared.
“Ugh, so frustrating,” Sonya agreed.
Another woman came up to the tram driver to ask for help and directions, but was quickly turned away. She came and asked us directions, but then didn’t listen to Sonya’s answers and just kept on walking.
“That was strange. That lady was a little bit odd,” Sonya said afterward.
“She’s probably dehydrated, since you Europeans never drink water,” I theorized.
“Oh, you are so smart, you hydrated American. You are right about everything,” Sonya sarcastically seethed.
“Of course!” I laughed.
“These trams are so crazy,” Sonya admitted. “Actually, only my grandmother truly understood them. There’s tram 27… but then there’s 27-A and 27-B, and so many others that just don’t make sense to me.”
I nodded, “That’s some Ukrainian Nonsense, right there.”
“Fine, fine. Make your jokes,” Sonya smiled.
We had to walk like 40 minutes after an already active day.
We could have taken a taxi home, but we needed to go to Sonya’s grandma’s house because Sonya wanted to pick berries. Because berries are delicious. Because you can make pies and teas and compotes with berries. Because berries are the best, and fresh berries are even better.
Because a couple kilos of berries are worth the walk.
And because the metro was out, because of Russian aggression, because taxi drivers form an informal union by not accepting certain prices under favorable market rates, and because it was getting late; a taxi home would be very expensive. So, Sonya only wanted to take one.
So we walked.
And walked.
And walked.
It was a long way, the kind of distance the European mind shrugs off, that the American mind would never allow. Keep in mind, Sonya and I’s first date was 10 miles of walking throughout Kharkiv in a 6-hour period.
This is Ukraine, people. It doesn’t pay to be a p*ssy.
We finally got to Sonya’s grandma’s house. It was a nice little cottage in one of the many sections of Kharkiv that could almost be mistaken for a Ukrainian village. The backyard was a garden teeming with life and delicious fruits and vegetables.
“I want to get out of here before anyone comes home. I still have stuff to do back at the apartment.” Sonya told me. “And I don’t want my dad or uncle to suck you into drinking beer.”
This had happened on more than one occasion.
“Yea, we can just get the berries and head back to the apartment,” I agreed.
The berries turned out to be currants. I had never eaten a currant before. The black ones tasted a bit like wild grapes, and the red ones had a nice sour flavor. We picked bunches of berries off the bushes for the next hour. What a strange, surreal world! One moment, I’m in the middle of the Kharkiv River getting bombed by Russians with only nudists for company, and the next I’m sitting in my girlfriend’s grandma’s garden, peacefully picking berries.
We had almost gotten ourselves a couple kilos of currants when the gate to the house opened. Sonya’s dad and his new wife had come home. They didn’t expect us, but were very happy that we came. Sonya’s stepmom introduced herself in the best English she could muster and had Sonya ask me all sorts of questions about being American and from California. Her dad brought out the snacks in classic Ukrainian fashion, and poured me a beer and cider for his daughter.
Sonya was not so happy.
She argued back-and-forth with her father about how she needed to go home before finally relenting. We would end up drinking many beers, and Sonya’s dad would scrounge up sausage and left-overs to make a little meal for everyone. I helped him cut wood for the barbecue. After a couple glasses of beer, I bummed a cigarette from him.
“Again?” Sonya asked knowingly.
“Haha! Yup,” I replied.
Sonya’s stepmom asked about my family.
“I have two sides of my family: my mom’s side and my dad’s side,” I explained, and Sonya translated. “My mom’s side of the family is a little bit more religious and proper, and my dad’s side of the family are basically redneck-forest-people. We have a family property in the forest in California that we go to, to build cabins, cut down trees, hunt and do outdoor sports.”
Sonya took much longer to translate than for me to speak.
Also, the conversation generated questions that Sonya was able to answer, adding to its length.
The subject meandered back to Ukraine.
“And when did you come to Ukraine last year? September?” Sonya asked, going back to English.
“Yea, but I was here for a month in 2022, in Lviv and Kyiv,” I reminded her.
“How did you first come to Ukraine again?” She asked.
“Well… I had planned a trip to Europe before the war, but when some stuff happened and the war started, I decided to change my schedule and come to Ukraine,” I explained.
“And how did you get to Ukraine?” She asked
“Well, actually… I had no money when I first came to Ukraine because I had my phone and wallet stolen in the Running of the Bulls 7 days before,” I continued.
“You did what?” Sonya was confused.
“What do you mean? I did the Running of the Bulls in Spain. And I got my phone and wallet stolen. I’ve told you this hella times!” I exclaimed in shock.
“What are ‘bools?’” Sonya smiled.
Everyone started laughing.
“Bulls. Toros. Cows. With horns,” I described, putting my fingers on my head to act out being a bull.
Sonya did her best to translate.
Her dad and stepmom, being a little older, were old enough to be more familiar with bullfighting.
They tried to explain the concept to her in Ukrainian.
“And what do you do with these ‘bools?’” She asked me.
“You run with them! In the streets! People run with the bulls and get gored and gouged and killed and shit! And then they fight the bulls in the arena!” I continued passionately.
“Oh, wow,” she nodded.
“Like my cousin who called us the other day when we were in Odesa? He and I ran. So did our friends. I CANNOT believe that after dating for 3 months, I have not told you this story! All the times you get mad at me for forgetting minor details of life, and you don’t even know your boyfriend did the Running of the Bulls!” I ranted.
“Well, I remember you saying something about ‘bools,’ but I didn’t understand what you meant,” she admitted bashfully.
“You’re so funny,” I laughed.
“So, what did you do after you lost your phone and wallet?” Sonya wondered.
“Cocaine,” I replied.
“No, really,” she insisted.
“No, really. After my stuff got stolen, an Australian guy I was with said, ‘You look like you need a bump,’” I told her.
“Okay, but I’m not going to translate that,” Sonya explained, referring to her family.
“Well, actually, I had no cards that worked in Ukraine, so I had to send myself money using Moneygram, but when I got to Lviv it was the weekend and all the banks were closed. I only had a package of soups, so I basically went hungry for 3 days,” I continued.
“That’s crazy,” she commented.
“Yea! This is how I met Rod and all those other volunteer soldiers, but me and Rod were going to Kyiv and most of the other people were staying in Lviv, so Rod ended up staying with me for a month in an apartment I had rented on Airbnb,” I told her.
Sonya started translating the whole story more completely for her family.
We spent the rest of the evening and into the night eating food and drinking beer.
Drops of rain began falling from the sky. They began to pour harder and harder, tapping and rattling across the glass awning we were safely sitting under in the garden. Water gushed from the rooftop. Soon thunder and lightning began to play their part in the chorus, a grand finale for a glorious day.
I got a text from my friend from Canada who teaches English in Kharkiv. His school, Boiko, had been completely destroyed by Russian bombs in massive attacks that day. It was right in the center of the city. I was supposed to begin training to teach at his school come August. Luckily, no one was at the school due to summer break, but now, they don’t even know if they can resume operations by September. Boiko is a well-known private school for the wealthy and talented. It could be that the Russians targeted it due to some ties to Ukrainian politicians, businessmen, or soldiers; but it’s impossible to know for sure.
“My school that I’m supposed to work for got blown up,” I showed Sonya the pictures.
“Oh, no. That’s so sad,” she reacted seriously.
Thinking we needed a distraction, Sonya’s dad showed us a couple artifacts in his collection hanging on the wall inside.
“This mace was used in battle some thousands of years ago. And this axe was used around the birth of Christ,” Sonya explained.
“And what’s this?” I asked, pointing to a document in Russian on the wall.
“That’s a note of passage. My father sailed around Finland and the Arctic. This note is dated 1990,” Sonya answered.
“Wow, that’s crazy,” I told her and her dad.
He smiled and nodded proudly.
“I want to go soon,” Sonya told me.
“Okay, no problem,” I nodded.
We called a taxi but it took forever to find one in the deluge and in the aftermath of the attacks. For a moment, I almost thought we’d be stuck there for the night, but when we upped the price to 200 UAH ($5.00), we finally got a taxi.
We said our farewells to her family, and rode into the rainy night.
No more nudists or bombs on the river or futures lost, the day was over.
The rain lulled me to sleep.
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