My mother pined for the Adriatic Sea. Everything in that sea was so much better than the sea off the coast of Tel Aviv. The beach of Tel Aviv was indeed challenging. There were no bays. The waves could be strong and make swimming hazardous. There were dangerous undercurrents close to shore.
Moreover, the beach itself was not always a haven of repose. On many occasions people played matkot, an Israeli version of ping-pong that did not require a table. And that little ball the players hit back and forth could hit you.
In contrast, the water of the Adriatic Sea was clean, cool, and blue. Its shores were dotted with little bays, so the water was calm and the waves contained. Rocks protruded above the mirror-like water, offering rest to tired swimmers, their feet caressed by soft waves that were stirred by a gentle breeze.
My mother heard that the shore near Tantura on Israel’s Mediterranean coast was nearly as fantastic as the one next to Apatiya in Yugoslavia and decided to take me with her there—finally a “decent beach.”
My father would not join us; he was not attracted to the three S’s: sand, sun, and salt.
We did not have a car, nor was there a road to Tantura fit for a car. But the train to Haifa stopped not too far away.
So one evening we started to pack everything that we would need for the big outing to the sea. First of all, we packed two sheets, one to spread on the sand and another to create shade.
And if we were to have shade, we needed some poles. Poles? My father removed the brushes from two wooden brooms and we had two poles.
In a big basket we placed water and food and a big bottle of gasoline to clean our feet in case there was tar in Tantura.
Early the next morning, heavy with baskets, sheets, and poles, my mother and I left home and started walking toward the train station in Ramat Gan. The road between our house and the station was not yet paved, and we waded through substantial sand. When we arrived at the station my mother remarked that one of the trip’s missions was accomplished—she was saturated with sand.
At age 12, I didn’t mind being covered with sand. To cheer her up I said that the swimming in Tantura will be as good as in the Adriatic Sea.
There was much more wading in the sand when we walked from the train stop toward the beach. We crossed many dunes to reach the magic moment when the sea came into view. It was blue and there was a bay. And the beach was empty. Uncomfortably warm and exhausted, we dropped all of our packages on the sand, stripped down to our bathing suits in less than a split second, and fell into the water.
The water was translucent and cool. Small fish swam above sand and pebbles and we smiled at them. To better admire them, we ignored the salt in the water and swam with our eyes open. After a long time of blissful swimming, diving, sitting on the rocks, and jumping back into the water, we felt ready to eat and drink. We built a “tent” with our poles, devoured our sandwiches, and enjoyed the scenery. It did not take long for my mother to “discover” that the sun was so much stronger “here” than “there” and that the breeze did not have a cooling, soothing touch. She dreaded the walk back to the train station, and it also occurred to her that we would look pretty awful with our dry salty hair. “We’ll look like earthquake survivors!” she said.
And that’s how we looked when we arrived home. Hair glued to our heads, eyes red from looking into the water, clothes rumpled, and sandals full of sand. My father directed us straight to the bathroom. He immediately put a brush to one of the poles and started sweeping the entrance hall. Chuckling, he observed that we really looked terrible. “You look completely spent. I hope it was worth it,” he mused. My mother seemed unsure, but I knew that it was well worth it.
I remembered Tantura as a magnificent beach, and when I learned later in school about pilgrimages to holy places, I imagined the heat of the sun, the weight of the poles, and the salt in my eyes. I also imagined the bliss of the cool water.
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