That evening we moored to the pier around ten in the evening. Another boat, Foros, approached us, on which my classmate Sergei was a sailor. When our captain-mechanics and mechanics left, Seryoga and I were given a bottle of dry (we didn’t have enough money for anything stronger) “Rkatsiteli,” which we called “Cancer to the goal.” We sit, smoke, chat about life. We look at a lady of about thirty-five, a brunette with shoulder-length hair, walking along the pier, dressed in an untucked white T-shirt and a long striped blue and red skirt. Then I, nineteen years old, liked women of that age, experienced and not afraid of their desires. She stopped at the edge of the pier under the lantern.