My love – 'Nostalgia' • The Fish Whisperer

the problem.

"Well, come on, we're going to the sea."
We are at 90 Allenby Street, Haifa.
My mother moved from Shiv Zion - Stanton, to Allenby.
Relative to the key fee apartment, on the third floor of the old stone house, which was blessed with raindrops every winter and scorching heat in the summer, this was an upgrade.
Being close to 'Lin' was also a kind of upgrade for my older mother.

The apartment in Shibat Zion was relatively large.
In terms of the early sixties, yes?
What is big?
So. When my father and mother came to see the apartment before buying it, my mother immediately vetoed it.
It was an apartment that shared a toilet, shower and small kitchenette with another apartment. Her looks were enough.
Dad also understood the problem.

Algiers-style cooking is going to run here, and that means a massive presence in the kitchen.
And food, no matter how tasty and good it is, doesn't stay forever in the stomach, yes?
And that means that at some point you have to say goodbye to him, yes?
Well, you get the point.

Dad closed the problem quickly.
He bought both apartments.
Wait, wait, don't get confused, even after the union, the two apartments are together
 They included two bedrooms and a living room. seto
So as we said, big in the concepts of the early sixties.
And all of this was sold for seven thousand five hundred dollars, to move to a small apartment on the first floor at 90 Allenby.
But hey, we're in Allenby.

Worsening conditions

However, despite the upgrade, there were sections that earned me a star under the heading - deterioration of conditions.
Saying goodbye to Makdush, the legendary tarp stitcher, the one who always emphasized that he is seventh generation in Israel, despite his heavy Iraqi accent, is a deterioration of conditions.

Moving away from the Atias family at number 18 is even sad.
But that's a story in itself.
And there is another lovely Atias family diagonally opposite us across the road.
To stay away from Wadi Salib is also a deterioration of conditions, and a foreigner will not understand this. (And this is a fascinating story in itself, and those interested are invited to read the book "Collecting Gifts from the Floor")

Not watching the flow of water overflowing the winding stairs and going up towards Hadar in a rainy winter is not only sad, it is already an introduction to fasting, fasting and obituary.

Of course, the reference is to the Maronite stairs that start from Shivet Zion, right across from the alley of the same name (the Maronites) crossing Shivet Zion, between Beber's building on one corner, and the especially kind Attias family across from it on the other side and going down to Paris Square.
The stairs connected at the top to Ninety-third Street and from there to the wide Stairs of the Prophets that reach Lehadar.

On the one hand, I didn't like the rain that fell from the ceiling in Zion
As if it were some kind of filter, but every disadvantage is accompanied by an advantage. appear to be.
As soon as the rain started I ran to the window, opened the green wooden shutters that were folded into three parts and watched the spectacular sight of the water pouring down the stairs, turning to the right and then to the left, according to the route of the winding stairs.

In which city can you see such a mesmerizing thing?
'Stanton City Falls'. Blessed Shashani Haifai.

But what am I digging for you about prehistoric times, I am now at 90 Allenby Street, visiting my mother. And since today is Friday and mom, like mom, is busy with cooking and preparing such and such salads that every gourmet restaurant can only dream of, I decided to free her a little from the hustle and bustle of my two zatots.

"Well, come on, we're going to the beach." I said to two.
"What, going swimming?"
"No, there's no time for that. We'll go to the breakwater at Bat Galim and see how the fishermen try to catch fish."
"What are they trying, they don't catch?"
"Sometimes yes, but most of the time no.
The fish probably don't fly on this section."
"Dad, you meant - we don't swim on this part"
I rolled my eyes. a wise man

Cuddling - that's me

From Allenby to Bat Galim, a short drive, but enough time for me
To fly back in time and cuddle a little with my lover - 'nostalgia'.
Yes, I admit guilt, 'Nostalgia', that's my lover's name and I try to snuggle in her lap whenever possible.

In general, cuddling - that's me.

The trigger for levitation at this moment was the fish thing.
I went back something like 45 years.
I went down all three high floors at Shiv Zion 16 and crossed the road. To my right, the balcony facing the road of Bar, and to the left the apartment of the lovable Atias family.

I went down the Maronite alley towards the Turkish market on my mother's errand.
"Choose a nice fish." she said. "Not too big and not too small.
And clean it properly."

So I'm on my way to the Turkish market. There is a shop there that sold live fish.
I passed by the church with the blue dome and to my right,
In the beginning of Koch, which gradually opened up to a wider place, there was a kind of flour station.

They only sold flour wholesale and in large packages, and they had no problem selling me a package of 15 or 20 kg, which I carried home on my shoulders with blood, sweat and tears.

I arrived at the store in the market

Inside an iron bathtub that seems to have been dug up from the depths of the sea
And it probably rested there since the days of the Romans, carp swam back and forth for them and maybe some other types that I didn't know.
If the bathtub could talk it would probably complain: 'How I have deteriorated. They once waded inside me
Roman emperors and now, fish.'

I chose the appropriate fish and closed my eyes as the seller butchered it with a skill that would not shame the hangman who would operate the famous French guillotine.

Wait, let's wait a little longer

"We have arrived".
The cry of the two little ones behind me brought me back to reality and cruelly cut me off from my lover's warm lap.
We climbed onto the breakwater and carefully advanced on the rocks to a few meters from its end.

Fishermen holding rods of different sizes stood the entire length of the breakwater.
At their feet is a basket, which they hope will be filled and they are focused on the float that swayed in the water, trying to detect its slight sinking, which means - the fish has bitten the bait, and this is exactly the priceless moment to quickly pull the rod and smile happily when a fish hangs on the hook.

For close to an hour we sat there, watching the fishermen who looked like professionals in the appropriate clothing, which included plastic protectors for pants, proper boots, a hat to protect from the sun and there were some with gloves as well.

Gloves on what?
I don't know, I'm not a fisherman.

But apart from once or twice, when a small fish less than the length of the palm of my house was caught by one of the fishermen's rod, we never saw even a trace of a fish worthy of its name.
In half an ear I heard one of them muttering to himself: "There are no fish in the sea."

Well, enough, I've decided enough is enough.
"Let's go home" I said towards the two who were starting to get bored.
After a few steps towards the beach, I stopped.
I held my children and brought them close to me.
"Wait" I told them "let's wait a little longer".
In front of me, someone walked with a plastic basket, looked for a comfortable place down the breakwater and sat down.

Well, what happened, why did I stop?

So that's it, the man who now sat down close to the water looks unusual in the environment like a Basta owner from the Talpiot market in the Pevzner library. at least.

The man in the bubble

He was wearing elegant black trousers. On his feet, shiny black shoes and he wore a pale white shirt, as if he had just arrived at his own wedding.

Between us, you would stop too.

I decided it was worth sitting down and dedicating a few minutes to the phenomenon.
I sat with my children two meters away from him.

The guy rummaged through his perforated plastic basket that looked like he had inherited it from his great-grandfather's grandfather and pulled out an empty can with fishing line wrapped around it.
He took out a small piece of bread, moistened it a little, made a lump, and attached it to the hook.

All his movements were efficient, skillful and he looked extremely relaxed.
Concentrated in his actions and unusual clothing in relation to the location, he was an extreme contrast to the whole environment.
Man in a bubble.
This tinkering of his lasted no more than three or four minutes, after which he threw the thread into the water holding the end in his hand.
He closed his eyes and his face looked focused.

I noticed that he occasionally loosens the thread a bit for a second or two
And then pulls it back little by little, with the gentleness of a brain surgeon.
Less than a minute later he suddenly and forcefully pulled the string.
A big fat fish swung on the hook.
He dragged it to him, released it from the hook, buried it in the basket and readjusted the hook for the next cast.
The children clapped and I choked with laughter. Amazing.

Why funny?
Because twenty fishermen around, with sophisticated rods and who look as if they have a master's degree in fishing from the Technion, can't do in an hour what a guy with a can did in a minute.

So yeah, it's funny.

He threw the string again, loosened an inch or two and then again with endless gentleness pulled little by little and after a minute pulled hard.
And... yes, a big fish caught on the hook.
Well, now I'm hooked.
What, is there a situation where he is a fish hypnotist by profession?

After five such magical acts that lasted no more than ten minutes and when five fish fluttered in the basket, he wrapped the string back on the box, got up and started making his way back up the breakwater.

The fish whisperer

No, no, no, there's no way this guy is going to disappear without me knowing how he works this magic.
When he passed me I asked him.
"Hello my friend, I have to ask you. The guys around here probably won't do in a month what you did in a few minutes.
How is it, what, are you talking to the fish?"

He smiled with an expression that I interpreted as somewhat shy.
He waved his hand in the general direction of the fishermen and said: "They come here for the fun, or for the excitement that comes with catching the fish, or just to pass the time. I come to fish because I have to."
In my mind there was a suitable definition for his answer - modesty.

Not wanting to pry, I gave my face a questioning look. without asking
He had no problem. "Look, I grew up in the city of Essaouira in Morocco.
It is a port city on the Atlantic coast.
Our family made a living from fishing, so I've known the profession from a young age."

"Yes, it seems that way" I said "but you do more or less,
What everyone does here and they catch nothing. What is the difference?
 Are you whispering something to them?"

He laughed out loud. "No whispering or anything. The members here simply don't understand the fish and in order to catch something you first have to get to know it, its behavior, how its mind thinks.
And each type of fish thinks differently.
They just cast a rod and hope for the best. It's a waste of time."

"so what are you doing?" I asked intrigued.
"Look, the kind of fish here are the suspicious kind.
They see the bait, but don't immediately bite it.
So they walk around it, check, and occasionally poke it gently to find out that it is not something dangerous for them.
Only after two or three such, when they feel it's safe, they bite.

So I time the hook pull. I feel the light bites in the swings of the line but don't pull yet, just playing with the bait a bit, an inch back and then, another forward, allaying their suspicions, letting them think the bait is nothing more than an innocent meal, and then, when they feel safe and bite, then And only then, I pull with force."

I couldn't believe I was hearing that.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes, absolutely. But keep in mind that this is years of experience, in fact, it started as a survival."

"Then why don't you go ahead and catch more?"

He shook his head and pointed back toward the apartment buildings near the beach.
"I live here, a three-minute walk from the sea. For Shabbat, I come and grab what I need for the Shabbat meal and that's it. Why do we need more?
 The sea does not run away anywhere. Next week I will come again and fish that Shabbat's meal. With God's help."

I loved it.
I said goodbye to him with a friendly handshake. The fish whisperer.

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