Surfing

Stories of Summers Past

For me, a child of New York ,whose lineage traces back through Flatbush, the Lower East Side and Romania and Russia, surfing as about as alien as the mating rituals of Dagara tribe of West Central Africa. Out of nowhere, but perhaps consistent with her peripatetic persona, Naomi had become interested in surfing.

A week before she was to leave for her year in Israel we took our annual family vacation together in Duck, North Carolina. These weeks on the beach have become increasingly precious to me as our family ages and each child heads down their own path. As I would not be seeing her for at least five months I agreed to both indulge and embrace her spirit of adventure by joining her in a surfing lesson. I did this being mindful of what, I believe, Woody Allen said, that for Jews, the definition of swimming is not drowning.

I understand Naomi’s interest in surfing in the context of her passion for almost everything new and untried; having said that, to me, surfing is about as alien as it comes. In fact, it is a bit of a personal anathema Ever since I shred the ligaments in my ankle playing basketball in high school I have always favored those sports that provided for consistent and steady agony over those that offer very brief periods of excitement followed by long periods of boredom. So, for instance, while all my college friends were busy downhill skiing, I was out trudging across the upper New York State landscape on cross country skis. To this day, it is difficult for me to comprehend why one would hurl himself down a frozen mountain on two sticks. To me, the odds of high speed collision, with another hurler or misplaced tree seem fairly high. This is why I now bicycle and why I am particularly drawn to trail biking with its long periods of unremitting discomfort punctuated only intermittently by brief periods of abject fear.

But it was surfing that Naomi selected and, on a profoundly hot and sunny Friday afternoon, I found myself lined up with six teenagers, facing the long-haired and meticulously tattooed Jason – our surfing instructor.

“There is only one reason to surf” he began.

Being a responsible adult, I’m guessing “to better appreciate nature” or “become more attuned to our environment”.

“To have fun”, he continued.

I never would have considered that. He then briefly went over the safety instructions. To me this was a bit of a red herring (an unintended seaside pun). Just hours earlier, I had signed a waiver limiting the liability of the surfing class. Among the rest of the small print, the waiver commented that “surfing may cause serious injury or even death.” And as Jason continued, it occurred to me that signing the release was perhaps the least stupid act of the day.

He concluded by telling us that he would keep an eye on us and flash the “thumbs up” sign if it appeared as if we were in difficulty. We only had to thrust our thumbs in the air and return the sign to let him know that all was well. How would he see my thumb if I was underwater? I recalled and seemed newly invested in a quip I often had mentioned that I purchased a watch that was waterproof to 100 meters so I would know what time it was when I was drowning. Jason concluded the safety instruction phase of the lesson by showing us how to cover our faces when emerging from the water. Why cover our faces – to avoid being hit by an errant surfboard – ours or someone else’s. This to me seemed like the proverbial insult added to injury - that one would go careening off a surfboard and with his last breaths of air manage to pierce the surface of the water only to be creamed by someone joyously riding the waves.

It seemed relatively simple on the sand. We all lie down on our surfboards, feet just touching the edge to ensure the proper front-back balance, pretend to paddle, paddle, paddle and then “pop up” into a low crouching combat-like stance at his command. Just when I was thinking that it was not quite so terrible or terrifying, Jason raised his arms and we all followed him into the surf. Lugging the surfboard behind me – mind you, this thing is seven feet long - I made my way through the surf and waited my turn as Jason took each of us out, turned us around and pushed us in front of a wave.

I’ll admit it; there was a very brief period of pleasure as Jason pushed me forward. I jumped up into my fighting stance and stood on the board for an estimated 1.3 seconds before I plunged into the water.

We spent the remainder of the time paddling and paddling and then attempting to turn around, find ourselves in front of a wave and, as we gathered steam, “pop up” into the familiar surfing stance. Naomi was remarkable and I had a notion of asking my wife if she had ever spent time with Brian Wilson in California around the time Naomi was conceived. I was, well, pathetic. I caught one good wave and couldn’t think of any reason to ruin the ride by standing up only to plunge into the water.

It was then I realized that the unremitting rocking of the waves and the series of saltwater cocktails I had downed made me very seriously nauseated. More likely, it was existential motion sickness; the acute awareness of my age and my personal limitations as well as my internal referencing of the water as the River Styx. Certainly, I was treading in the watery boundary between the earthy plane and the underworld.

While Naomi, her peer surfers and the bronzed, indefatigable Jason paddled on and rode the waves I lumbered ashore, prostrated myself on the surf board and prayed for the two hours to be up. As I was about to head into a peaceful stupor I saw Jason flash me the “thumbs up” sign. With seemingly my last ounce of strength I returned the gesture, although my heart wasn’t in it.

Whether or not my surfing outing with Naomi counted as “quality time” remains to be seen. Perhaps, it depends on how one defines quality. But I did it for Naomi and I would do it again if she asked. And as she grows in to adulthood and has children of her own, I hope she will always take that image of me on the surfboard with her. I am praying that she does not take up an interest in rock climbing or spelunking. Quality time should have its limits.

Babette

Having managed to sleep in the 38 square inches allotted to me by Delta Airlines and having my luggage wondrously find its way more or less unscathed, I am once again reminded that Israel is a land of faith and miracles. Today marks the arrival of the Pope. Although I am someone intrigued to discover the impact of his (is that a capital “h”?) arrival is this already profoundly over relgiousized and politicized city, my single greatest concern is the impact of the visit on Jerusalem’s overcrowded narrow streets and the near psychotic drivers who inhabit them.

It is 3:30 am on the night/morning of my first full day in Israel and I have already witnessed one of the small and unpublicized miracles that make Jerusalem the Holy City and Israel the Holy Land.

It takes a special kind of masochist to choose to confine oneself to an overstuffed moving chamber after spending 11 hours and 22 minutes on the flight to Israel but that is what I chose to do. There were 8 of us in the sheruth to Jerusalem and I found myself tightly wedged between one of the four black hats in the minivan on my right and a slight young and profoundly non-Jewish looking woman on my left who, based on my keen understanding of culture and anthropology, along with her sandals and socks, had to be from Europe. Being fully intimidated by my neighbor to the right (both geographically and religiously) I struck up a conversation with Babette from Amsterdam. Here is what I learned:

Several months ago, Babette came to Israel to be with an young man she had met in Amsterdam. Unfortunately, when she arrived she discovered, to her dismay, that the prospective Israeli suitor was already engaged. She found herself alone, a stranger in a strange land.

But, she said that she was curiously drawn to this ancient city and instead of falling in love a young man, she fell in love with Jerusalem. She found herself spending almost every Friday night at the Kotel mesmerized by its energy. And so she stayed. She found herself feeling like an Israeli and doing all the things an Israeli might do including getting in an auto accident. So she travelled home to Holland where she discovered that, rather than getting engaged in Israel, she had gotten a concussion.

But while back home in Amsterdam, she uncovered something remarkable; her grandmother’s sister was Jewish. Based on this discovery, she is uncovering what she believes is her own Jewishness. A trail of documents, dating back to the Holocaust, seems to have confirmed her personal revelation. It has made her understand that, perhaps, in travelling to Jerusalem, she has truly come home.

So she plans on staying. She has no work but seems unconcerned. She is ready to begin the process of Aliyah but she has no idea how to proceed. I told her about Nefish b-Nefish. As it turns out, our Sheruth neighbor to the right is the Chabad Rabbi of Salt Lake City and he gave her the name of a woman’s yeshiva that would welcome her in. The sheruth stopped on King George Street, Babette squeezed down the aisle and disappeared into the Jerusalem evening.

It is 4:09 am. The imam is calling the faithful to prayer. The Pope will soon arrive. The Kotel will swell with Shaharit. It will soon be dawn of another day in Jerusalem.