SURFIN' SAFARI SUMMER THREE - DAY ELEVEN - (Venice Staycation) - July 29, 2021

ANGELS IN MY OUTFIELD. Forced from our flat due to repairs and remediation (because that is what a 59-year old Alzheimer's patient needs) the plan was a move to Venice for a little, in-close Surfin' Safari Summer action.

Anna's decline is precipitous now. There is no point to bitch-whining and detailing every feature of the descent. It robs my wife of her dignity. Alzheimer’s special little cruelty.

Just know that, as her health goes, so go the family's fortunes, though we are not always alone.

When we decamped, the head to the shift in the car broke. It did so in park, which I was explaining to the tow truck guy, who was explaining to me how hard it would be to tow in such a state. A local street character, who may or may not be homeless, overheard the conversation and promptly fixed the problem.

When offered money he said: "Don't be all about the dollar, brother. Don't play that game."

Wow.

We beat a fast retreat to our Venice digs. Forgotten was the vial of melatonin I have on hand to keep my wife from walking off to Canada. We went to the supermarket and picked up the tranquilizer and a few other items. Harried, at the cashier it became clear I had forgotten my wallet.

There is only one trip to the store with Anna and I muttered under my breath, "I am in a world of hurt without that melatonin," and a young guy behind us in line told the cashier, "I got it for them."

$50. Wow.

Back at our place there is a common courtyard. Two dudes came in and asked me to play a song on the guitar and I may have played it a little too sad because one of them was so moved he expressed a desire to pray for me.

The surfer population gets pretty thick in these parts and this guy turned out to be a Surfer-Rabbi.

Those close know I am as atheistic as they come, but like most humans, find solace in ritual.

Years ago, living in Seville along the "Ruta Mudejar" of mosques-turned-churches (they would top the Muslim muezzin tower with a Rococo Christian cupola to repurpose the structure and make a point about whose God was boss), I used to smoke hashish and sit in those 10th century temples for hours, somehow fortifying my nonbeliever's soul.

So the Surfer-Rabbi lashed a leather chord around his arm, donned a yarmulke and soothed me. I felt him but one of many Angels arising along a difficult path for us. And he had a blonde woman in white hot pants photograph the affair to post on Instagram.

Go figure.

I asked what piece he had read and he gave me, as a gift, his Tora/Old Testament? (again, I am weak on this stuff), with a marker at the relevant text.

To read it, I had to turn the pages in the opposite direction. It was the "Song of Songs," an awful screed -- completely inappropriate to the message of peace and hope he'd been trying to convey.-- about somebody named Hashem, and blood and war, and the DNA of Western Civ writ ancient.

But things worked because of the way he prayed it. Like all of us, the Surfer-Rabbi was working with the tools he had in his toolbox.

And, somewhere in all this, the beach being close by, I surfed, just so these Angels might be recounted in true Surfin' Safari Summer fashion.