Some years ago when I was seeing some of the Old World with my friend John, (Johnny Surf to his fans---of which there are many) we found ourselves getting into a van at 4 A.M. in Jerusalem. It was our departure day from the old city and we decided to go out in style by taking an early morning trip down the road that straddles the green line separating Israel from the West Bank. We were going to hike up Masada at sunrise. As some of you know, Masada was the last hold out of Jews defying Roman occupation.
It was a nice vigorous hike and it was glorious with the sun rising out of the desert. At the top, our guide told us that the roughly nine hundred Jews who were holding out there had a huge underground cistern full of fresh water. We walked down a steep set of stairs that had been cut in the rock and found ourselves marveling at this huge room that it had been hewn from. It was about the size of an olympic swimming pool and at least forty feet high. The Romans were toiling below, building an immense wooden scaffold so they could put a battering ram on it to break down the gate, thus allowing them to conquer the last of the Israelite hold-outs.
The Roman legions were on strict water rations of a cup a day. Every afternoon, when the sun was at its hottest and the Romans were at their thirstiest, the Masada residence would flush a large quantity of water down the side of the cliff to taunt the thirsty Romans. The night before the Romans finally broke through, nine of the Masadans were chosen to stab the rest to death. Then one of the nine would stab the other eight then take his own life just as the Romans were entering. Apparently one woman survived and told the Romans what had happened and that's how it became part of the amazing history of Israel and the Jews.
In the upper left, you can see the Jordan River as it flows into the Dead Sea behind the citadel of Masada.
After our Masada excursion, John and I headed down to the Dead Sea for a swim, taking great care not to get our heads wet. I touched a finger to my lips. It was so salty it burned. I can only imagine what it would feel like in your eyes. You don't really "swim" as much as bob around on the surface like a duck. After our "bob", we went across the road to wait for the bus to Eilat. While we were waiting, a busload of school kids got off for their Dead Sea excursion. One group of spirited "sabra-ettes" heard John and I conversing in our American accented English. They looked at other and giggled and amazingly, broke into Frankie Lyman's doo-wop hit from the 50's: "Why Do Fools Fall in Love". As they were doing the doo-wop chorus, we started singing the lead. The girls got very giggly and danced their way in front of us. John, who was our sound/recording man on this trip (I was camera/visuals), pulled out his Sony Portable Recorder and he recorded our little performance. The girls loved all of it; especially the playback. As they were dancing around to the recording, some of the boys from their class walked over, looking a bit jealous, and started pulling on arms to get the doo-wop girls back into the group for their dead sea swim. We waved them goodbye. "Bye, you lovelies, keep on singing and dancing!..."
Our bus showed up and in about an hour and a half we got off in Eilat, a little village at the very southern tip of Israel where it meets the Red Sea. On the bus with us were many young Israeli soldiers; mostly female. They all had assault rifles slung over one shoulder and banana-shaped bullet cartridges slung over the other shoulder. They all looked like they wanted to be anywhere else but here. Unfortunately they had no choice as there is a mandatory draft of two years for all Israeli's youth who are not at death's door or Hassidic Jews.
John and I rented a little A-frame cabin in a campground across the road from the sea. It was a little trapezoidal unit with just enough room for two cots and a single chest of drawers. After washing the day's considerable salty grime from our bodies, we had dinner and drinks at a fishy little seaside restaurant across the road and since we had risen at 3:30 that morning, we called it a night. The next morning, we put on our beach wear and repaired to a nice little beach club/cabana right on the water. There were beach chairs and umbrellas, a little seaside bar/restaurant and a small gazebo where you could rent snorkle equipment. After breakfast, we wandered around town a bit. I look at the images of Eilat today and marvel at how it has grown in twenty-one years. Back then, it seemed like a dusty little low-rent beach resort. This is the southern most spot in Israel. Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia, all staunch adversaries of Israel, come to a confluence here, which must be a little unsettling for the locals. No wonder there were so many gun toting "sabras" on the bus yesterday. In Eilat, you are literally surrounded by your enemies...
Eilat was a sleepy little back-water low-end beach resort back then, but you can see how enticing the Red Sea is.
We returned to the beach cabana and settled into a couple of beach chairs on the sand, with cold beers in hand. All around us were other vacationers in various modes of beach-wear. Judging by the conversations, it appeared that we had crashed a German hofbrau. We had run into quite a few Germans on holiday in our travels and I marveled to myself, "How can Germany be the most productive of the Euro-market countries when it seems like, wherever Johnny Surf and I go, a large portion of its population is on holiday, sitting on clothing-optional beaches drinking beer?"
The people lounging around us were, for the most part, large blond and boisterous. The men wore skimpy speedos and the women were topless. There was a young woman to my right who was not topless and who didn't appear to be part of the hofbrau crowd. She wasn't a knockout but she had a nice smiling face, curly light brown hair and a very nice figure. She smiled at me and I smiled back. "Hi! Do you speak English?" She laughed and gestured toward the clothing-challenged crowd, "No, I'm not with the Germans. I'm from England and I'm here on holiday with the guy I share a house with."
We exchanged names and I introduced "Sherine Robinson to Johnny Surf. During our conversation (I had moved over next to her) I learned that she was traveling with a doctor whose house she lived in. He was not her boyfriend, she emphasized, but she strongly suspected that he would like to be. She was originally from Durban, Natale, South Africa. She had been a sprinter on her high school track team and a gymnast as well. She was a good enough runner that she competed in the state championship. She certainly looked athletic with a great pair of legs.
As a former snorkeler and SCUBA diver from Hawaii, I had heard about the wonders of the Red Sea. The reefs and fishes and the clarity of the water make it a top diving experience. I asked Sherine if she'd like to join me in a little snorkeling. "Brilliant! I'd love too!" We rented snorkels, fins and masks from the little rental kiosk and waded in. The water was refreshingly cool (it was mid-march) but not cold (we were surrounded by desert; the Negev and the Saudi Arabian Peninsula on the left; the Sinai Desert Peninsula to our right.). Before I put my head underwater I looked around at the landscape. I saw desert everywhere and several young Arabs in white robes, riding camels. I put my goggles on and went under. I was immediately transported back to Hawaii. All the reefs and reef fish I had marveled at in my diving experiences in Hawaii growing up, were all around us.
The juxtaposition of deserts and Arabs riding camels above water, and the Hawaiian reef tableau below was an amazing experience. "Sherine", I exclaimed, after we had popped our heads back up, "this is just like being back in Hawaii. I recognize all these fish! What the Red Sea locals call "Moorish Idols", we call Kikihi back home. That school of red fish we saw are generally known as Soldier Fish but in Hawaii, they are Menpachi and quite tasty, to boot. That other fish you pointed out underwater? In the books, its name is Wedge-tailed Squirrel fish but in Hawaii---get this---it's called "Humuhumunukunukuapua'a!" After she stopped laughing I told her how the "humuhumu" as it's usually abbreviated, was the official state fish. The Hawaiian translation means "fish with a face that looks like a pig". Sherine squealed with delight, "That's too brilliant for words! I'm so glad I have my own personal fishing guide!"
The Moorish Idol, aka, Kihikihi in Hawaiian
The little fish with the big name and Hawaii's state fish: The fish with the face of a pig: HUMUHUMUNUKUNUKUAPUA'A! It took an old girl friend of mine about a year to pronounce it properly. It's a good way to see how long someone's been in Hawaii.
After we got out of the water, we toweled off, grabbed some cold beers and flopped down in our beach chairs. The more we talked, the more I liked her. I had not been with a woman in some years and I was easily charmed. By this time it was late afternoon and a chill was setting in. "I notice you have goose bumps, Sherine, would you like to wear my velour shirt? It's very warm." Sherine replied, "Oh brilliant! That would be lovely if you don't mind." Shifting into suave chivalrous mode I said of course not. I took it off and handed it to her. I must admit it looked quite fetching on her. "Oh it is warm! It smells good, so umm, masculine, I guess." she remarked. I tried to remember the last time I'd showered, remembering that I had gotten up at 3:30 the morning before. "Well, about the smell, I apologize." I replied, "That shirt climbed up the Masada plateau yesterday at sunrise and then it visited the Dead Sea." She said it smelled "yummy" to her and we spent the rest of a fading afternoon getting to know each other.
She lived in a little town east of London in an area known as East Anglia in the village of Fritton, not far from the southern coast of the English channel. She was a nurse and that was how she came to know Dr. Costley and to be renting a little cottage on his property. She liked to play squash and was an enthusiastic equestrian. I gave her a brief bio of myself ( knowing me I probably went on way too long, but she was either actually interested or too polite to interrupt me.) The sun was sinking low and I screwed up my courage and asked her, "Sherine, is there any chance I could steal you away from your doctor for a dinner date with me tonight?" "Brilliant!" she enthused, "I'd love to. Why don't you meet me at my hotel. We'll have drinks and decide where to go." The more we talked, the smarter she made me feel. Everything I suggested was "brilliant!" When I finally got to England two months later I found out that everyone and everything was "brilliant!"
After we parted ways, I snooped around some and scouted out a nice romantic Italian restaurant on the water across from her hotel. I went back to our little trapezoid cabin, got cleaned up and met Sherine at her hotel. She admitted that the doctor was not thrilled to find out that she had made other plans for the evening but she put her foot down and said she was having dinner with this "Brilliant!" American she'd met on the beach that day. The doctor was sixty-three and Sherine was "in her mid-thirties" and had no interest in romance with her older landlord. I was liking this frisky gal more and more.
We finished our wine and got up from the table. She gave me a big smile with a sparkle in her eyes and put her arm inside of mine. "Oh Mike, I'm so glad you asked me to dinner! Brilliant!" We crossed the road and got a nice cozy table near the sea. We talked, ate pasta, laughed, and drank wine until we were the only ones in the place. Taking a hint from the bored looking waiter lurking nearby, I paid the tab and suggested we take a walk along the beach. Outside there was an almost full moon and the Milky Way was blazing in the desert night sky. It was chilly out and I put my arm around Sherine and she snuggled into me with a little sigh. I was getting giddy with feelings of romance. I turned to her and after gazing into each other's eyes I gently leaned in for a kiss that was returned with passion. In an instant we were making out and groping each other like young lovers.
The last romantic embrace I had had was with my ex-fiance about four years prior. Suddenly a wellspring of passion, romance, love and desire poured over me like a whole-body orgasm. In a voice, husky with urgency I said to Sherine, "Do you want to come back to my place? John flew back to Tel Aviv for a date. We could get to know each other in a more intimate way if you want... like I want." Her moan of desire turned to a groan of dismay, "Oh Mike, I'd like nothing better but if I don't go back to the room tonight with the doc, he'll be really cross with me. As a doctor at my hospital and my landlord, I can't afford to make him angry. Oh, I wish I could stay with you tonight, I really do! This has been like one of the most romantic nights of my life!" With a sigh, I responded. "I understand, Sherine. I'll be missing you terribly in my little cabana tonight. I want to see you for breakfast at the beach club tomorrow morning. Is that OK?" "Oh definitely!" she enthused, "I'll be thinking of nothing but you till I see you tomorrow." After a few more passionate embraces we reluctantly parted ways. That night I dreamed of her.
Early the next morning, I went into town to secure my plane ticket back to Tel Aviv that afternoon. Then I hastened to my rendezvous with Sherine, my sweet Baboo... at the beach club. When I got there she was waiting. When she saw me, she jumped up and threw herself into my arms for kisses that left off from the night before. The magic and chemistry were still there for both of us. We ate a languid breakfast while Eric Clapton provided musical accompaniment for "our blues". "Sherine, darling...may I call you darling?" I asked, "We've got time for one more swim and then I have to pack and get to the airport. With what I've experienced so far, I know that Israeli security is gonna pillage through all my stuff. They seem to think I'm some sort of CIA spy or something. Meanwhile my traveling companion, whose last name is "Rosenberg", sails through customs and security with barely a nod and a friendly go-ahead wave."
"Mike, and yes, I love that you called me darling! I understand. I wish we had more time together but I understand that you have to catch a connecting flight back to Athens for your next trip to Egypt. You said you'd be finishing up your trip in England, right? Will I see you then?" "You bet, sweetheart, do you mind if I call you sweetheart?" I replied, "Wild horses couldn't keep me away from you. Here... Write your name, address and phone number in my little travel address book so I can find you when I get to England. It should be in early May if all goes according to plan. Then we can take up, at least for a little while, where we left off last night. I've done nothing but think of you ever since then." With a little wistful sigh she looked up at me, "Oh yes, sweetheart; you can call me sweetheart. What I really want, is for you to call me as soon as you get to England. I'll be waiting for you. Already I can't stand the thought of not seeing you till then."
We waded out into the cool Red Sea for a last swim together. We fervently began to kiss. Under water our hands quickly slipped inside each other's bathing suits for a little more torment and titillation. Much to soon I was toweling off and heading back to the little trapezoid cabin to pack. Sherine rode the bus with me to the airport so we'd have our last moments together. We sat on the back bench of the bus and held hands. We may have been gazing deeply into each other's eyes also... While Sherine sat in the departure lounge, I disappeared into the security area, a small room separated by a partially drawn curtain. I could see my Sweet Baboo looking anxiously at me while a grim-faced security guy started tearing through my rucksack. He asked the usual inane questions about my being given anything to take on the plane, etc. etc.
Meanwhile his hands were methodically pulling apart everything I had packed. He picked up my camera and made me open it. Then he made me take out the battery. I was pretty sure that would kill the pictures in the roll of film and later, to my great frustration, I would find out that I was right. No pictures of Sherine and I frolicking in the Red Sea. He went through each page of my travel books, page by page. The time was ticking away and I could see by Sherine's worried looks that the other passengers were beginning to board the plane. As I was finally cleared, I frantically threw all my jumble of belongings back into my pack, gave a hasty kiss and a hug to a now teary eyed Sherine. I flew out the departure gate to see the plane literally taxiing down the runway with the back stairs still down and the flight attendant waving to me. Like those scenes in the movies where the reluctant lover barely makes the plane or the train, I jogged up to the moving plane, threw my bag to the flight attendant and jumped aboard the bottom step. I vowed that, as God is my witness, I would be with Sherine again. Little did I know on that chaotic and heart-wrenching day how difficult that was going to be.
My English sweetheart from the little, and I mean little, town of Fritton, East Anglia, England.
More on this evolving romance next time. Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres
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