Speaking and writing about Yuri Germanovich Vinogradov in the past tense, putting the word "was" next to Yura's name is impossible, hard, to the point of pain in the heart...

Today it is already difficult to recall our first meeting with Yura: It was in 1959-1960, that is, about forty years ago, when we were schoolchildren attending the archaeological circle at the State Historical Museum. Even then, Yura stood out among all of us with a special, deep and purposeful attitude to science and more thorough knowledge.

In 1962, Yura and I took part in a real archaeological excavation of an ancient monument near the village. Popovka in the North-Western Crimea. Soon we became friends, and I found out that Yura independently learns ancient Greek and even quotes passages from ancient authors from memory! We shared a tent and had plenty of time to talk about ancient history and plans to continue our education.

Communicating with Yura, I discovered another amazing facet of his talent - it soon turned out that he was also a poet, and he knew the basics of versification. This talent of his was the reason for the birth of a series of songs, poems and ballads on archaeological topics. Some of Yuri Germanovich's songs have been performed on various expeditions by several generations of archaeologists, and, in most cases, as "folk-archaeological"ones.

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August 1968. A quiet, warm Crimean day is coming to an end. Long shadows from our bent figures run in front of us, and behind us there is a double chain of footprints from our bare feet. If you look around, you can see how the sea waves, as if reluctantly, first lick off a few prints for a sample, and then, having got a taste, eat all the traces... But we don't look back. We watch and move forward along the water's edge, bending under the weight of grapes. Selected amber "chaush" was stolen by us from the vast vineyards in the vicinity of the archaeological camp and must be delivered there to the festive table of the eternally hungry archaeologists.

The only clothing on Yura's lean, bronzed, tall figure is a pair of swimming trunks, since he has made a makeshift bag out of his trousers, tying the ends of his trousers with knots. For the same purpose, he adapted his cowboy jacket. He carries both "bags" on his right shoulder, while managing to elegantly hold a small suitcase in his left hand, in which he placed the ripest bunches. We sing loudly the song we composed last night and the words fly over the surface of Pontus: "A trireme is sailing straight to Hermonassa, there is no rudder or compass on it, do not look that we are barefoot, we are Pontic sailors, we are going out into a stormy sea...".

We are in a great mood: we are on an ancient expedition, our guys and our boss Olga Dashevskaya are waiting for us, there will be a holiday in the evening, and we have completed a task that is not devoid of risk with honor and are now approaching the camp. Everything is still ahead, and we are not schoolboys at all, but two ancient trierarchs-Yuri Vinogradov, or rather Ampeklei of Rhodes, and Vladimir Tolstikov, Pachycrates of Samos, leading their ships with a cargo of Chios wine to their native harbor...

The footprints of Yuri's feet left along the edge of the beach were swallowed up by the waves of the "ever-noisy Pont", but the trace left by the scientist Yuri Vinogradov in our science is undoubtedly etched forever.

Just as in the hearts of relatives, friends, and friends, the acute pain of premature loss and the feeling of the gap it has made in our destinies and in our science, the gap that there is nothing to fill, will remain until the end.

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