The man stands at the edge of the water and calculates how far out he will swim. Jogging on the spot for a few moments, he mentally prepares himself for the short run and then full immersion into the cold white froth: his morning ritual since arriving in Tel Aviv three weeks ago.
At almost 66, his 6’1 frame is still taut and muscular; the once thick fair hair is now thinned and silver, but the gaze from his light blue eyes is keen and alert as the Armenian gulls that hover and turn on the horizon.
He rubs his hands vigorously up and down his torso and makes circular movements across his chest, where a few grains of sand have nestled among the light hairs.
Behind him, Park HaMidron HaYarok slopes towards the sea, separated only by a long stretch of promenade – the Rocks of Andromeda to the north and the Jaffa Port Sea Wall to the south. A few early morning kite-flyers move about on the beach in the distance and high up in the immense blue sky rectangles of red, yellow, green and orange jerk crazily about in the powerful breeze.
A strong swimmer, he normally front crawls to a distance of about 50 metres, before turning, and riding back in on the waves. He sees the red flag is flying and the sea is looking rougher than normal but he quickly dismisses it. He’s going in. Today is his last day after all.
Tomorrow will see him return to the calm waters of the Danube, where he'd kept watch on the Long Patrol Boat (Oberst Brecht) since 1961 – 45 fruitful years protecting Vienna and the numerous power plants dotted along the river.
No! He will not miss out on this morning ritual. Happiness, he has come to know, is to be found in the smallest of things. Raising both arms above his head, while clenching and unclenching his fists, he begins the short run.
Soon, his body is completely submerged, save for his head, which surfaces occasionally from the white foam.
Later, the high-pitched shrill of a siren cuts through the squall of the Armenian gulls. A Magen David Adom ambulance, it’s red Star of David emblazoned on the side, speeds to an unknown destination.
In a squat, single storey house, hidden from view behind hot, crumbling alleyways stuffed with small shops selling antique furniture, copper pots and bric-a-brac – interrupted only occasionally by a sleek glass-fronted art gallery or a trendy café – a fastidiously packed open suitcase rests on a single bed. An airline ticket and passport sit neatly on top. Beside it, a smart blazer is draped carefully over a white plastic chair.
Outside the window, in the late afternoon sun, a large tourist bus thunders past at the corner of Yehuda Margoza and Yefet Street, throwing up clouds of swirling dust, and a police car makes its slow journey up the long, narrow lane.
