From atop the bluffs overlooking the mouth of Balaklava's harbor, I watched the crewmen of a small green fishing boat guide their slow craft into the channel. They take their time, but soon they are past the marker buoys and making a course toward the company of more colorful little boats bobbing listlessly in the gentle water along the quayside.
Already very warm in April, Balaklava exudes much of the charm of a small Mediterranean fishing village. Fishermen, dock workers, and naval personnel frequent the cafes that dot the waterfront. The surrounding countryside reminds one of scenes from an Italian holiday brochure—nearby Aya Point jutting deeply into the clear waters of the Black Sea, the ruins of a 15th-century Genoan castle sprawled out across the green hills above the harbor, the stucco-covered block dwellings joined by narrow village streets. These were not images of one of the most closely guarded secrets of the former Soviet empire.
Just beyond that point, where the boats in the village's fishing fleet turn east to make for their homes in the harbor, is the seaward entrance to Balaklava's once-secret underground submarine facility. It is a massive complex of dry docks and workshops built under the surrounding hills. The mouth of the subterranean channel is visible from the bluffs overlooking the harbor. On entering the channel, Soviet submarines were coupled with a mechanical mule, which pulled them through the narrow, eight-meter-deep channel to the dry docks deep within the bowels of the hillside. During Soviet times, I probably would have been shot just for having seen it. Now, however, this once-formidable place is just a relic of the Cold War. Stripped to its very bones by countless looters and souvenir hunters, it is only a reminder of the Soviet Union's "strong, dark, and terrible" past.
Access to the interior of the facility is from the harbor side, through an entrance marked, "To Safety." From there, I progressed forward in near total darkness, holding on to the arm of my guide. He led the way with a severely underpowered flashlight, twisting and turning our way through a maze of passageways. Ever mindful of open manholes and other potentially fatal hazards, we emerged along a catwalk that allowed us to proceed along the side of the channel. At the end of the catwalk, squeezing through a heavy and thickly rusted hatch, I emerged into the light.
Green seawater, the home to schools of small fish and nettles, lapped rotting masonry and rusting metal at the seaward entrance to the channel. There, seemingly crushed by its own weight, rested a giant concrete and reinforced steel door, which at one time was alleged to be capable of withstanding an atomic blast. It is doubtful it ever will move again.
I hung around for a while, just to take it all in. Then, retracing my steps, I made my way back through the darkness toward the harbor. When I stopped to relieve myself on the way, my guide joked, "Largest toilet in Soviet Union!" I guessed that summed it up.
I was told that when the old Soviet Navy divided its fleet among the former partners, Russia retained the modern vessels, leaving what appeared to be one antiquated diesel-electric boat to the Ukraine. "The submarine is broken," commented a local man. "It won't run."
Reports indicate Turkish businessmen have offered to purchase the old submarine facility with the idea of transforming it into a luxury hotel and resort. Ukraine, however, has not warmed to the idea. But with the submarine facility in the state it is in, and without even one seaworthy submarine in their fleet, perhaps Ukrainian officials should not be so hasty in turning down the Turkish offer. Perhaps they could capitalize on Balaklava's inherent charm and turn this once-dark outpost of the Cold War into a hot tourist attraction.
Mr. Ross is the author of The Sky Men: A Parachute Rifle Company’s Story of the Battle of the Bulge and the Jump across the Rhine (Atglen, PA: Schiffer Publishing Ltd., 2000).