From: owner-alloy-digest To: alloy-digest@smoe.org Subject: alloy-digest V1 #78 Reply-To: alloy@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-alloy-digest Precedence: bulk X-To-Unsubscribe: Send mail to "alloy-digest-request@smoe.org" X-To-Unsubscribe: with "unsubscribe" as the body. alloy-digest Friday, 1 November 1996 Volume 01 : Number 078 Today's Subjects: ----------------- Alloy: Freezing in Their Spam Tins ---------------------------------------------------------------------- From: "Melissa R. Jordan" Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 12:59:15 -0500 Subject: Alloy: Freezing in Their Spam Tins Hello? Hello? Have we all been consumed by the hellfires of work and study? Well, in case any of us are still out here, I'm going to adjust the little devil horns on my head (yes, I really am wearing devil horns) and tell a story. It's longish, and for that, I beg your forgiveness. (If any/all of you find my periodic stories tedious and annoying, I cringe in apology, and I invite you to give me a boot to the head and tell me to go away via e-mail...) Regardless, happy Halloween to all! Now... I have to exorcise a Dolby-related demon in my head, so here goes... "One of Our Submarines" has been going through my head for more than two weeks now, since I received two submarine-related phone calls. First, a colleague from Vladivostok (a former Soviet "spetsnats" or Green Beret) rang to tell me he was in the 'States, and he'd brought model submarines from the Russian Pacific Fleet boat-building school for a friend. Then, I got a call from a man I call "Blinky Bob" (long story) who worked with me in Moscow a few years back. In a moment of bizarre inspiration in 1989, Bob asked me if I'd like to go to Murmansk (Russian seaport above the Arctic Circle) for New Year's Eve. I thought, what the hell - why not go to a bleak Russian city experiencing its season of total darkness - the Northern Lights would be cool, and the Soviets - even when dead broke - put on one hell of a fireworks display for New Year's. First off - and maybe Lissu (if she's reading this) can affirm this - total darkness during the day really means something more like total ...greyness. It's hard to accurately describe - like walking through a world the color of thick volcanic ash. There wasn't much to do in Murmansk, except wander through the strange little shops in town. The main department store was loaded with really odd things (like inflatable rubber lobsters - don't ask me why) that the locals were buying in a consumer goods-crazed frenzy. The shop was crowded, and, to escape the sweaty, steamy holiday hordes, Blinky Bob and I escaped through a back door. What we found outside the door blew me away. We were right on a waterfront - - and there were six black submarines lined up along the water's edge. I was freaked out. Bob, being less circumspect than I, just yelled, "Oh my god!" This got the attention of the dozen or so submariners repairing and cleaning the ships. They stared at us like we were aliens just beamed down from space; regardless of what you wear, it's not tough for a Russian to spot a Westerner, and they knew we weren't Soviet. These guys just dropped everything they were doing and came running toward us. I thought we'd just violated some sort of military territory, and we were going to be arrested. Bob and I just stood stock still like deer in headlights. They were all skinny and pale - cadaverous, really. They all had these hollow, black-circled eyes I can still see. They looked unrealespecially in the ash grey light. I got goosebumps. But, I have to say, they were friendly - waving, asking where we were from. As young foreign pseudo-diplomats, we were both hesitant to communicate, but we finally gave up our isolationist attitudes when one of the sailors came up and shook our hands and hugged us. They all seemed much younger than I was (25) at the time. They were starving - both literally for decent food and for some human interaction. They'd all been out for six months, and they hadn't had any communication from their families in all that time - because of bizarro Soviet restrictions, their communications were still cut off while in Murmansk, a "strategic port." We took pictures. I wished that I had things to give all of them. I only had a couple of U.S. Embassy keychains in my handbag, and I gave them out quietly to two of the more talkative sailors. Then, we took pictures with Bob's 35-mm. This brought smiles to all of them. There we were, 2 Americans surely in a place we weren't supposed to be (thank god our KGB tails were probably getting trashed for the holidays), talking to military personnel we probably weren't supposed to be talking to, taking flash photos of Soviet subs in the grey darkness. I didn't care - these people seemed so miserable - I figured it was all the holiday they were going to get. When we left, they all looked so dejected. I can't imagine the horrors of living six months in a Soviet submarine. I've been on board one, and I only lasted a few minutes before claustrophobia set in. About two months after I saw those poor guys, I heard from one of the military attaches that there'd been a hush-hush submarine accident somewhere near Murmansk, resulting in the deaths of many submariners. I got chills thinking of those kids trapped in some sinking, seeping coffin. Just after I heard about the incident, we had a massive fire at the embassy, and all my photos from Murmansk were destroyed. Whenever I hear "One of Our Submarines," I think of those young, hungry-looking, sad men, and I wonder if they're all okay. ...Well... I reckon I've expelled that demon from my head... Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with a new song in my head. Take care, all. - - Melissa - ------------------- Melissa R. Jordan - ------------------- Special Projects Manager International Programs Office Goodwill Industries International, Inc. (301) 881-6858 (301) 881-9435 (fax) ------------------------------ End of alloy-digest V1 #78 **************************