Essay
Arabatskaya Streak stretches along the sea, enveloped by sands and salty wind. There are many lakes here, and each possesses its own unique character. One is famous for its pink salt, another for its healing mud. But among the endless sands lies a body of water whose history resembles a legend.
To reach it, you must travel a long distance from Genichesk toward the village of Strelkovoye. Beyond the «Desna» recreation base, away from usual tourist routes, a patch of green unexpectedly emerges amidst the dry sands. Upon approaching, you can see a small, circular lake surrounded by dense vegetation.
The water lies still in its banks, forming an almost perfect circle with a diameter of about a hundred meters. At first glance, the lake appears shallow, but its bottom is covered with a thick layer of viscous mud. The water here is so saline that ordinary swimming becomes a dubious pleasure. However, the mud attracts vacationers: people dig it up from the bottom and apply it to their skin, hoping for a therapeutic effect.
The most unusual thing happens where gas bubbles rise from the bottom. They burst on the surface, causing the water to gently ripple. If you lie still, you can feel the light touches of these bubbles, like an underwater massage. Thus, the lake has transformed into a kind of natural Jacuzzi.
Local residents recount that this site once held an oil derrick. During drilling, the well filled with natural gas, which subsequently led to an underground explosion. The earth collapsed, leaving behind a massive sinkhole. Over time, it filled with saltwater, and vegetation began to grow around it. Thus, an oasis emerged from the sand—a lake that today seems like a natural part of the surrounding landscape, though its origin is linked to human activity. This story persists in local folklore, but there is no documentary proof of it.
The road to the lake offers no amenities. Public transport does not run here, so travelers must hike in or arrange for a vehicle. Yet, it is this remoteness that makes the encounter with it so memorable. After a long trek across monotonous sands, the circular surface of the water feels like an unexpected discovery.
The lake silently guards its secret. It serves as a reminder of how human intervention can alter the earth, and how time can transform a scar of destruction into something marvelous. Amid the sands of the Arabat Spit, this small body of water resembles a true oasis, its genesis still enveloped in a story that borders on legend.
Legend. The Lake near Strelkovo: What They Found Instead of Oil
A long time ago, back when the Arabatskaya Junction was unaware of the «Desna» base or the Ostrich Farm, we decided to look for oil halfway between Strelkovo and the distant dunes. The disassembled derrick was transported by carts, assembled right on the sand, secured with guy wires, and the motor was started. From morning till night, a steady hum resonated above the junction. First, the site was leveled with shovels; then, wide planks were placed under the supports so that the heavy frame wouldn’t sink into the sand. The long, rusty drill bit was hauled up through the hoisting mechanism, being swapped out in turn.
Nikanor was the driller—broad-shouldered, loud, and accustomed to the earth yielding to whoever pressed harder. His assistant was Danil, a young man who, within the first week, learned to listen to the borehole the way one listens to a sleeping child’s breath. He pressed his ear against the cold pipe, froze, and only then engaged the lever.
«Why are you clinging to the metal?» Nikanor would laugh. «It’s silent.» «It’s not silent, Nikanor Petrovich. It’s just speaking quietly.»
Every evening, Danil would walk around the derrick: checking the bolts, tightening the guy wires, and wiping the levers with a grease-soaked rag. Nikanor watched him from the office window, grumbling, but by mornings, he asked less, «How is the drilling going?» and more, «What will your machine tell you?»
Every morning, the old salt harvester, Paraskeva, passed by the drilling site. She carried a jug of fresh water and a handful of coarse salt in a canvas bag. She would place the jug in the shade beneath the derrick, set the salt on a clay barrel, and always repeat the same phrase: «This earth is breathing. Don’t rush it, my son.» Nikanor would just wave her off.
On the fortieth day, the drill reached a depth no one there had ever achieved. Suddenly, the clay settling tank near the derrick began to gurgle. Danil approached, crouched down, and held his palm over the surface. The murky liquid trembled, and bubbles rose from it one after another with a faint hiss. A heavy, alien odor wafted out, stinging his nose. Danil stepped back, covered his face with his sleeve, and looked at the pipe—condensation had beaded on its cold side.
Danil straightened up, quickly walked to the kitchen stove where porridge was cooking, and scattered the glowing embers with his foot. Then, he turned off the lantern at the entrance to the shack. Only after that did he rush to Nikanor.
«Shut down the engine. There’s gas here.» «I’m only fifty meters from the oil!» «Then I’ll do it myself.»
Danil leaned on the lever with both hands. The engine sputtered, the derrick stopped shaking, and in the silence, the hissing became loud. Nikanor looked at the bubbles, at his assistant’s pale face, and the shout in his voice vanished: «Everyone get out. Run toward the dunes!»
The workers dropped their shovels and ran. Danil ran last, but he veered toward the salt pans, where Paraskeva was sitting at the water’s edge, sorting crystals.
«Grandma, get up.» «My legs won’t move, my son.»
He bent down, hoisted her and her bag onto his back, and ran, sinking up to his ankles in the hot sand. He reached the crest of the dune, laid the old woman gently on the ground, and collapsed beside her.
In that instant, the ground gave a dull thud. The sand beneath the tower rose like dough, and the entire structure—the frame, the pipes, the cabin—slowly slumped downward. A cloud of sand erupted above the dunes, and then everything fell silent. Daniil got onto his knees, counted the people head by head, twice, whispering, and only on the second count let out a breath: everyone was accounted for. When the dust settled, a perfect circle gaped where the tower had stood, as if drawn with a compass, one hundred paces across. Gas was still rising from the depths. Nikanor sat on the sand, clutching his head. «Three months of work…» That night, the sinkhole quietly filled. Water came up from the bottom, seeping through the sand—warm and heavily saline. By dawn, ripples circled the depression, and bubbles began to boil up from below.
Paraskeva, leaning on Danila’s shoulder, descended to the edge. She scooped up the dark mud from the bottom and smeared it onto her knees, which had long been twisted by pain. She stood still, listening to herself, and smiled. «Now she breathed a sigh of relief, ” the old woman said.
Nikanor followed her down to the water. He stepped from the sand into the shallow water, sank up to his knees in the mud, cursed, and then suddenly laughed—loudly and for a long time—so much so that the workers on the dune turned around. «There’s no oil,» he said, pulling out his boot. «But look, see how it’s bubbling.» A week later, Paraskeva went to the salt pans without a stick. A month later, green patches of vegetation grew around the lake, vibrant against the barren sands. And a year later, people began to gather around the circle: some with pitchers, some with jars for the mud, and some just to sit on the warm sand and listen to the bubbles humming beneath them. Daniil himself once lay on the water in the very middle, arms spread out. The bubbles gently supported him from below, and he lay there, looking at the sky, unable to hear the roar of the engine that had been ringing in his ears for so long. Paraskeva set up a bench by the water, and everyone who came received a first handful of mud and the same advice: «Don’t rush.» Nikanor stopped drilling. He built a wooden platform over the shallow water, and Daniil hung a rusted chisel on a pole by the water—everything left from the derrick. Since then, they say in Strelkov: they wanted black gold, but they found a circle of living water. The earth does not like it when you rush it, but it rewards generously those who know how to listen.
