Published originally in Hebrew: Haaretz, Family and relationships section, August 6th, 2024.
Every time we leave a place, the children get sad, sometimes I do too, and then they explore the new world at our next destination. The people of the sea come from different countries, speaking different languages - but share one common world.
One of my father's favorite games was discovering historical figures with Jewish origins. In his view, Columbus was a Jew who, instead of facing the Spanish Inquisition or living secretly in a community of conversos (forced converts), chose to sail forth to discover the New World. Many times I ask myself how they did it; without digital navigation maps, without depth sounders, without constantly updated weather forecasts. How much courage they had, those sailors of the Old World. How much capacity to embrace uncertainty.
Instead of a house, we live on a catamaran sailboat - a two-hulled vessel designed for stability at sea. As a third-generation Holocaust survivor, the thought that our home is mobile and not rooted in the ground is very comforting to me. No matter what reality rolls to our doorstep - we can raise anchor and move to another place. The sea routes are wide and full of possibilities.
Wandering Jews 4.0: Our Roots are in the Sea
We have no address or preferred dock; weather dictates our location. For us, the wind is God; the waves are powerful goddesses to be respected; prayers are heard here mainly when we're in the middle of powerful lightning storms.
We work part-time and find that this life costs significantly less than living in Israel. That doesn't mean I don't question whether we're doing the right thing at least twice a week. Three times a week, I think this is the only sensible way to live, for us and for them. So we live according to the seasons and move with the wind's direction and strength.
"For us, the wind is God; the waves are powerful goddesses to be respected; prayers are heard here mainly when we're in the middle of powerful lightning storms."
Each sailing region has its season. In the area where we've been for the last three years - the western part of the Atlantic Ocean - the hurricane goddess dictates the sailing direction. From June to November, the central Atlantic hosts hurricanes, and anyone who wants to survive needs to either head north to a certain point on the East Coast (after entering the endless Chesapeake Bay at the North Carolina-Virginia border), or south to the southern Eastern Caribbean, to an island called Grenada.
For three years now, we've been moving according to the seasons - in winter heading south to the Bahamas, wrapped in turquoise waters in colors the mind can barely comprehend and pink sandy beaches. At the end of spring, when the sun warms and insects start multiplying, we head north along the East Coast. Each time we're surprised by how many faces of America we haven't yet known. Each time we venture a bit further north. This year we'll finally reach Maine.
As I write these lines, we've already sailed 8,418 nautical miles (13,547 kilometers). By the time you read this column, we'll probably accumulate another 1,200 nautical miles on our way from Florida to New Jersey. We do all this mainly with wind power, carrying our home on our back. So there's no need to pack. No need to rush the kids in the morning. But we do have to deal with them all day, every day.
Life on a Boat with Children
Our journey isn't bound by time. There are places we return to several times, and then for a moment feel like we've returned home with our home. Within a few days or weeks, someone gets restless, usually me, and we decide on the next point. We're determined to use whatever time we have before the children, maybe, demand to live life "normally."
Boat children don't run - they climb and jump. From scaling the mast (the tall pole that holds the sails) to leaping from roof to roof or into the water, they're natural acrobats. They go ashore on good days once or twice, and when we manage to form groups of boats sailing together, they meet their best friends on the beach. They have a swing and trampoline at the front of the boat for stormy days when we stay in. They learn from life, from the sea, and also through
Zoom lessons.
The Sea People's Community
Despite our homes not being rooted in soil, the sense of community in the floating life of sea people is strong. In these years at sea, we've made so many new friends - more than we did on land in 20 years. We sail together for a period. Separate and meet, meet and separate, always in motion. We celebrated my eldest son's sixth birthday a few months ago on a beach with a bonfire, surrounded by friends. "Buddy boats" is the term for "neighbors" among sea people.
Even at sea, the most valuable buddy boat is one with a pediatrician aboard. And when she teaches us how to close a deep head wound without stitches, we all listen. Another boat has an aesthetician offering facial treatments. In the evening, we meet for beach bonfires with fresh fish, frozen hot dogs, or whatever each family has left after two weeks without a grocery store.
"We celebrated my eldest son's sixth birthday a few months ago on a beach with a bonfire, surrounded by friends. "Buddy boats" is the term for "neighbors" among sea people."
The sea people always come to help. Anchor chain tangled? A small boat will assist. Run aground on a sandbar? Eight boats show up at exactly the right moment at high tide. A boat lost its mast? Seventeen boats come to help retrieve it from the sea. Lightning strike? Engine failure? Generator down? Just call on the radio and ask. Help will arrive within seconds. Someone will say they have a spare part. Someone else will offer to help install it.
Although we all live in the same world, without borders, permanent residency, or border conflicts, and despite their sharing in our grief since October 7th, since that day I feel that even in our global community, something has slightly broken. That their ability not to die inside from what's happening in Israel opens between us a gap too wide to bridge. A gap that makes me feel a little different.
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