Mid-summer 1988 Nothing at the beginning of this wonderful Sunday day, according to the favorite expression of the writing fraternity of all centuries, foreshadowed a thunderstorm. The cloudless sky was blue like a huge tent over the heads of three young people standing in an embrace at the edge of a high cliff with the beautiful name Steep Yar. Before their eyes, a great river flowed its waters in a powerful stream, sung by many generations of poets. It spread here for kilometers, reaching a particularly wide width in the spring, during high water, when even in clear weather it is difficult to see the opposite bank. The white motor ship, which seemed like a toy from here, exchanged horns with the oncoming cargo ship and serenely glided downstream. A light river breeze carried a barely audible lyrical melody to Krutoy Yar, to which several couples of festively dressed passengers enjoyed life in a slow dance on the upper deck of the ship.