A Second Helping of Sunshine: Looking at the brighter side of life By Malka Adler This fabulous collection of Jewish stories & essays from everyone's favorite "Bubby" takes you through her interesting, inspiring - and downright funny life adventures, and is sure to add some more sunshine to your life. Buy A Second Helping of Sunshine at a special online price at www.targum.com

Grandma Goes Kayaking

The Indians made it look so simple. The African natives did it with the greatest of ease. So where did I go wrong?

There we were on the rapidly flowing Jordan River (the Israeli side), complete with a plunging waterfall. (That’s where I shouted “Shema Yisrael!” Believe me, it was most appropriate.) The management of Park Yarden, in the Golan, had strategically placed the instruction sign, which hinted of dire things to come, so that it was visible only after our group had paid and was committed to this dubious form of...entertainment? Adventure? Sport?

Participation by those proficient in sailing and swimming was recommended. But I was a slippery calamity whenever I donned a swimsuit, and a blue-and-white sailor collar was as close to sailing as I had ever ventured. To review my athletic accomplishments until that fateful afternoon - I had never even been on a bicycle, and the only roller skating I had ever done was in our small Williamsburg apartment, holding on to the furniture. (There was no question of disturbing the neighbors, since both above and below us, their children, too, were engaged in the same noisy pastime.) Until that day, I had recognized my limitations and acted accordingly.

The fine print on the sign strongly suggested: “A life jacket, securely tied, must be worn at all times. Leave all valuables on dry land, such as: jewelry, all teeth not firmly rooted, cameras not waterproof.” I entrusted a fifteen-dollar watch to someone’s care and discreetly exchanged my sheitel for a kerchief. But what was more valuable than the neshamah? That we were taking along, and hopefully returning with. Still, the die was cast.

In all innocence, I had assumed that we would be a cozy clique of about eight people, securely belted into a sturdy, yacht-like seaworthy craft. At our head rowing and steering us with great prowess would surely be a world-class boatman and swimmer. While drifting lazily down the tranquil waters, nothing more than admiring the scenery would be required of the passengers.

In reality, the “kayak” turned out to be a flimsy, manypatched, rubber contraption, with a couple of unmanageable oars that were almost as awkward as the two uncoordinated females who were desperately attempting to maneuver them.

After twenty-six happy years in Israel, I was doing the “tourist bit.” What had finally moved me to get moving was the visit of our lovely granddaughter Estee Wolman from the States. I was just sorry that her sister Bee couldn’t come too. I had been teamed for this voyage with the frailest-looking Russian girl in our group of sightseers. Rather loudly, I announced that I couldn’t swim. This dramatic statement fell on the deaf ears of the determined staff. We were all given life jackets and quickly herded by twos onto the boats. It was faintly reminiscent of the emergency evacuation of the Titanic, or the picturesque parade of pairs boarding Noah’s Ark.

Also along for the joy ride were other granddaughters and Chasi, a married daughter, who were accomplished swimmers. But they were somehow teamed up with partners who were similarly talented. My sole shipmate was the one girl that I had pitied from the outset of our three-day trip to northern Israel to pray at the holy sites and thrill to the beauty of our country. While still in Jerusalem, our first trip was to the Kosel and climbing the walls around the Old City. She was quietly sick to her stomach. On the tourist bus, only she required pills for nausea. In short, I was destined to be the “ship’s captain.” I half-stumbled, half-fell onto the seat - correction, there were no seats. One sat on the floor of this glorified canoe.

Within the first five minutes, we were sitting almost waisthigh in water. This didn’t perturb me. Though it was late afternoon, the weather was hot and humid. Truthfully, it was rather refreshing to be attired in waterlogged shoes, soaking skirt, and streaming stockings.

The rapids violently tossed and twirled us as if we were seated in a toy paper boat. Sprays of foam showered us. I was spared the sight of myself, but my partner in peril was positively pea-green. Huge branches along the shore reached out to ensnare us. We ducked as we sailed into their midst.

Aside from the elements, I was struggling against a language barrier. For example, the English of my “crew” was nonexistent, and while her Hebrew included some rudimentary fundamentals, “left” and “right” were not among them. While ordinarily, these two directives are not essential in conventional conversation, they were imperative when each of us was manning an oversized oar on a raging river. Under those circumstances, one is deeply dependent on clear communication, if for no other reason than to prevent being knocked unconscious or knocked overboard by the well-meaning one who is wildly wielding her weapon (oar).

Much of my energy was directed towards dodging her paddle while maintaining a feverish grip on my own. Simultaneously, I was shouting (to be heard above the roaring river) “Da!” (yes) and “Nyet!” (no). From time to time, I threw in a hearty, “Slava Bugo!” (thank G-d). Meanwhile, other rowers waved gaily as they glided past, rowing in graceful unison. May it be recorded for posterity that I was not afraid. The situation was too funny for fear and too hilarious to be heartstopping. And my faith in the Ribbono shel Olam was intensified, as I felt that I was so completely in His hands. Nobly, we attempted to row and wrestle with the recalcitrant river. Every few minutes, I was struck by the humor of the situation. What a shame that I wasn’t on the shore enjoying this free entertainment, rather than being the soaking star!

Finally, we met our match; we became deeply entangled in the mini jungle. Even a seasoned optimist such as I couldn’t visualize the possibility of rescue from such a plight. Through the thick branches, the sun was starting its glowing descent and a pale moon was visible. How far could nightfall be? The gaunt, gray-green girl opposite looked to me for some glimmer of hope. For her benefit, I arranged my face into a bright smile and slowly enunciated, “Don’t worry, Hashem will help very soon.”

A prayerful five minutes later, a mirage appeared - but no, it was a smoothly sailing kayak, maneuvered by an efficient young man, an employee of the Park Yarden. His assignment was, no doubt, to round up the stray schlemiels at the end of the day. We certainly fell into that category. Not by word or look did he indicate his opinion of our capabilities. Rather, he set to work expertly extracting us.

When we were finally out of the woods, so to speak, he lowered himself into the chest-high water and tied our two boats together with an orange life jacket. He made but one small request with which I was only too happy to comply: PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO HELP HIM IN ANY WAY! The oars, especially, should not be touched. It was my first truly relaxed moment since we had left the safe have of the shore. Was it days, hours, or minutes ago? Time had lost a meaning in this wet world or whirling waters.

The relaxation period was not too extended. My partner, ever well intentioned, had apparently not absorbed the instructions. She tightly clutched an oar and started swinging, missing my eye by two inches, baruch Hashem. Through pleading, pantomime, and grandiose gestures, the message was conveyed.

Grateful to Hashem for His great chesed, with sloshing shoes and clammy clothes, we waddled ashore. It was a bit disappointing that our fellow travelers were not witnesses to our triumphant return to terra firma; they were already ensconced on the bus. But Estee didn’t hide her emotions as she ran from the bus, embraced me wetly, and declared, “Oh, Grandma! You’re such a treasure!”

That title, along with the accompanying adventure, would surely go down in the annals of our family history. But surely there must be a simpler way for Savta to spend a summer day...

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