Ido and the Jellyfish

The water was turquoise, cold, and calm. Like an energetic eight-year-old, I dropped my gear and raced into the ocean, tears of joy mixing into the salty brine. The gentle waves held me buoyant; I was not my age, my weight, or my compromised knees and hips. After ten minutes of mindlessness, I staggered back to the blanket, collapsed onto my side, and contemplated how little I needed to acquire a state of bliss. This was, for me, bliss.

Israelis know how to party; they know how to barbecue and picnic, and they really know how to “Beach.” Throughout the grainy expanse of this Nature Society site, entire families and groups of friends had set up aluminum tables filled with fruits, sandwiches, and all kinds of drinks and snacks. Ronney and I attempted to appear content with our hard-boiled eggs and cut vegetables, hastily tossed into used restaurant containers, but it was useless. Our refreshments were pathetic, and we ate rapidly.

Only a few feet from where I lay, a little boy of six intently buttressed a hole in the sand, tirelessly running back and forth with pails of water that he summarily used to enlarge his lake. Despite the futility of the effort, his enthusiasm was boundless, and in addition to proudly (and loudly) urging his parents to “Look, Ima! Look, Abba!” while dragging a writhing toddler brother to enjoy the fruits of his labors, he was met with disinterest.

But I was interested. And said so, complimenting his industriousness. Certainly I had enough Hebrew to tell him that he could be an architect. He put down his pail and shovel and sauntered over to me, thin-limbed, bare-chested, and filled with bravado.

“Eich korim lach? What’s your name?” he asked.

“Ani Andrea. I am Andrea.” My husband sat reading, oblivious to another man making moves on his wife.

“Ani Ido. You speak English? I know English. Blue. Orange. Red.”

His mother called him to lunch, and, finally, sof sof, I dozed. Strange dreams filled my head, transporting me back to first jobs, first apartments, early boyfriends who were today, most likely, old men. Sweat pooled in the creases of my neck, and I became aware of someone blocking the sun. Ido sat next to me, a cucumber clasped in one fist, a chorizo sausage in the other.

“Where you from?” he queried.

“I live in Jerusalem. But many years ago, I lived in America.”

Clearly, Ido did not understand the secrecy of his assignment because, devoid of furtiveness, he shouted over his shoulder to his parents, “Hem m’Amerika. Hem Amerikanim!!!” “She’s from America. They are Americans.” I did not mention that Ronney was South African by birth. The point was moot.

Ido and I sat together for a while, considering the vista. He identified a military ship in the distance and used some jargon that I could not understand. For a while we fell silent. The companionship felt right.

“At mifchadet m’mdoozot? At rotza lir’ot achat? Are you afraid of jellyfish? Do you want to see one?”

“Uh, no, think again,” said my inner voice. “Of course!” is what came out.

He took my hand and showed me a mound of wet sand. An ugly, gelatinous gray mound quivered within. Other children gave it an occasional poke, screaming with both terror and glee. Ido held my hand in his.

His family was packed when we returned, and he did not say goodbye. They merely left. Ronney looked up.

“Where’d you go?” he asked. “Who’s the kid?”

My heart answered, “He’s a student and a father, a grandson and a precious baby to his parents. He’s a holy Israeli soldier, bravely protecting this land and her inhabitants. He is a child of God. He is my friend.”

Instead I said, “His name is Ido.”