Sarah's First Entry:
July 16
My father told me he hadn't realized the magnitude of what had happened
until he reached Lincoln Center. Traffic was completely stopped
everywhere, people fleeing in myriad conflicting directions. But he
said it was particularly jammed up where Columbus and Broadway cross in
front of the fountain. Three police motorcycles shot out of that mess,
sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, heading south; all the emergency
vehicles were heading south that day. And then right behind them was
this brown Taurus wagon and he had this moment in which he thought,
these fucking people have the chutzpah to fly behind the emergency
vehicles to get through traffic today. And then as the car passed, he
saw taped in its window a sign scrawled in red marker on a torn off
piece of brown cardboard: blood. The seats and the back of the station
wagon were piled with boxes of blood. Then it hit him, the
incomprehensible scale of what had happened. It hit my father, all that
blood, racing to get all that blood down there, that much blood.
It was the first time I ever had to call them to make sure everyone was
ok. My father could never break his habit of dialing me every time a
Reuter's alert scrolled across the bottom of his screen announcing yet
another martyrdom operation, yet another bus peeled back, another cafe
disemboweled. He would call whether it was a shop in Tel Aviv, a bus in
Jerusalem or a shooting attack in Hebron. Like an allergy sufferer
whose compulsive sneezes she wishes were ignored, not blessed, I came
to dread those calls and the subtle nagging plea to abandon my aliyah ,
return to Northport. "A father shouldn't have to fly around the world
to see his daughter," he'd say. (My mother didn't pull her punches. She
took my aliyah personally, "So you think your father and I are going to
hell because we're secular?" No I never thought you were going to
gayhenom . I loved you, love you still, and pray that Hashem takes my
mitzvoth and applies them to your account, increases your share of
heaven).
Then that day came along, and there I was, dialing
back home as fast I could, trying to beat the busy signals, find an
open line, get through. I'd just come back in from a late lunch and was
looking out on Ben Yehudah square from my office window -- people had
just started shopping again after violence's latest cycle -- when Ari
ran into my office and turned on Army Radio. It was my turn to call
you. Baruch Hashem, you were all right. You'd just gotten through to
Eema, and she said you'd called her from what must've been the only
working payphone for miles but that you were safe.
Then one
thing leads to another thing. You began working on the kayak in
earnest; enough so that when the time came, I could not easily dismiss
its call. And now Abba, I have also made a journey. Because you had to
walk those hundred odd blocks, I have made a journey to take another
journey, a trip to take a trip. I set out from far south of downtown
Manhattan, far south and far east, and like you, traveled north, north
and west. Now, I've been on the coast a full day, in which I only
paddled four hours out of what I hope to eventually be a daily eleven.
The sun nods over the mountains behind me. It's always in the same
place, sometimes rising, sometimes falling, but hardly at all. In my
head, I thought it would be more like a buzzard circling. I thought the
midnight sun would resemble that of a spaghetti western, permanently
overhead, beating down. It isn't. I don't even think it's related to
its high-noon cousin. Instead, a near dusk spurs all this ancient plant
life into a frenzied bloom, a spurt of almost growth, and me too. Me
too, I'm also locked into a desperate burst of action, racing in the
segue between ice and ice along this pebbled arctic shore. Like these
stunted willows' growing season, I have only so much time. Six weeks to
safely paddle, paddle and sail really, from my drop-off just east of
Deadhorse and Prudhoe to the McKenzie River, to Aklivuk.
I know
I'm tired, and I know I need to sleep, but after the mechanical actions
of the day are finished, the rowing, dragging the kayak up the pebble
beach to this night's camp (night, always night and never night), after
that, and pitching tent above the highest possibility of tide and
spraying everything against mosquitoes and making dinner: Lipton's
risotto with dehydrated turkey cooked over a Whisperlite stove, and
after sealing every final bit of food in a bear canister, after
everything, the sun's still up and I'm still awake. Just me and this
journal. Just the kayak my father almost finished building and me and
my journal.
I've never kept a journal before. I'm not sure how
to begin, what exactly to write in it, to what end I'm keeping it at
all. I suppose that the proper protocol would be to log the day's
events (for whatever reason):
At around two in the morning
(bright daylight), the outfitter, who my Seattle-based trainer, Nancy,
had hired, flew me out of Fairbanks in a twin-prop water-plane with my
kayak tied to the struts. To not throw the plane off balance, all the
gear I would normally stow in the kayak had to be packed into the
plane. All of which stretched the limits of the plane's weight
capacity. After a beautiful flight over the mountains, and then on
across the plains stretching down to the sea, he landed in the cove
Nancy had designated, and helped me bring all my supplies to shore. I
spent the morning organizing and inventorying my stores, constantly
vigilant for bears. Having quite such a bounty out and about unnerved
me. Finally, I packed up the boat, ate the first meal of my trip, and
set off. There, I guess that's more journal-like. Though I'm not sure
that's what I intend.
The trip is really meant for you, Abba,
and I guess you too, Eema . I'm finishing your dreams for you. I have
to believe you can see that. I cannot believe that this is anything
else. But do you need a written account to know that I'm speaking to
you? I'm rambling, aimless, using up useful hours whose energy should
be, must be, directed, focused, concentrated on getting from here to
there while I can, while the Arctic is open and before the grey Brooks
Range turns from scenic backdrop, its foothills as lush as the African
Savannah, to a massive backboard, concentrating, focusing and directing
a barrage of furious weather.
Afterwards, Abba, after that day,
you were a lot better about me being in Israel. You said, "It's just as
dangerous here, so why come home?" You convinced mother for me, took my
side. Not that I would've returned to the states. When you came to
visit, yes, she was a little tight-lipped, a little jumpy, but I blamed
it on her newfound fear of flying, who would've thought that -- Well --
This aimless writing isn't necessarily the best thing. Not if I'm to
heal myself and go back to Jerusalem; I will go back to Jerusalem.
L'shanah ha'bah, b'yerushalaim . Yes, this is my exodus. I've got to
get myself to go to sleep. I'm going to go to bed.
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