I am a life-long surfer but I’ve never been much of a surf traveler. The search for the perfect wave has long been embedded in surfing culture, but I feared the letdown I would experience upon returning to the mundane surf on the Mediterranean coast of Israel, where I call home.

As a mohel who often works abroad, I normally limit my international travel to 36 hours, minimizing the time away from my family. A few years ago, however, I was asked to participate in a conversion in Lisbon, and knew it could be the trip of a lifetime. I convinced my wife to let me spend five days on the coast and, as surfers do, I began to pray for waves, hoping there would be something to ride. 

As my plane touched down, Portugal’s first big swell of the season was rolling in. Wary of these unfamiliar waters, I remember looking at the waves and thinking I’d probably found my limit. In the end, the surf was great from north to south, but the people I met had just as much of an impact as the waves I rode. 

In my first two sessions, I overlapped with a man in the resort town of Cascais. Upon the second encounter, we struck up a conversation. I told him I live in Israel. Although this took place well before the Oct. 7 attacks, I was unsure of what his response would be. 

 “I’m an airline pilot and fly to Tel Aviv often. I love Israel,” he told me. In the parking lot we exchanged information and still message each other from time to time.

During the second session, I........

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