About the Author
Rabbi Nachum Shifren is a Southern California native. A disciplined athlete, competitive swimmer, runner and triathlete, he served for 10 years as a Los Angeles County Lifeguard and received a commendation from the Mayor for lifesaving water rescue.
At the outbreak of the Yom Kippur War he became a kibbutz volunteer, and in 1977 emigrated to Israel. Shifren served in the Israeli Defense Forces and received a degree in Combat Fitness Training at the prestigious Machon Wingate Institute for Sports in Netanya, Israel.
Shifren received a Bachelor of Arts degree from UC Santa Barbara in Spanish and German Literature. He continued graduate studies in West Germany at the University of Goettingen. Rabbi Shifren is a language teacher and is fluent in Spanish, German, Hebrew and Yiddish.
Rabbi Shifren attended Toras Chayim Yeshiva in Jerusalem and Yeshivat Tomchei Tmimim in Kfar Chabad, Israel, where he received his rabbinical ordination in 1990.
He has been featured in People magazine, The Los Angeles Times, The Jerusalem Post, GQ magazine, The Jewish Press, Surfer magazine, The Jerusalem Report, as well as Le Figaro, The Manchester Guardian, Sud-Deutsche Zeitung, and other international media. He has appeared on ABC’s Good Morning America, CNN, Phil Donohue, NPR radio, JTN, Fox TV, Deutsche Welle TV, Dutch, Spanish and Canadian National TV, KNX Radio, KBRT, and KFI Los Angeles. He founded Jewish Surfers International and the Surf & Soul newsletter. A movie based on Surfing Rabbi is currently in development.
Rabbi Shifren lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Rivkah and their 4 children. He is actively involved in physical fitness training, surfing and water safety. He continues to publish, lecture and teach—and is known worldwide as “The Surfing Rabbi.”
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Prologue UZI SURF PATROL “Road Alerts! Precautionary Measures! Avoid unnecessary driving in the Shomron area.”
As the radio barked I instinctively reached under my seat for the Uzi and released the safety, fumbled around in the tool box for another loaded magazine, and placed it in reach.
Driving on the Trans-Samaria highway, the main artery linking the heartland of Israel to the coast, is normally a scenic cruise across ridges with sweeping views and down through historic valleys planted in olive groves, vineyards and fig trees.
Today, though, I had driven through the first Arab village a little faster than usual. After a 15-minute delay at an Israeli army roadblock, we were once again under way.
On the radio the announcer’s voice was tense as he rattled off the number of Israeli casualties in yesterday’s battle at Joseph’s Tomb in Shechem.
“Bulletin! Drivers report shooting! Incidents on the Shomron road! Army officials predict increasing tension!”
I glanced at my wife Rivkah’s face. She was upset.
“Nachum, why are you taking this kind of chance just to go surfing?”
“This is no big deal. When I was on surfari down in Oaxaca, Mexico, in the early seventies, the guerrillas actually held surfers as hostages.”
Somehow this did nothing to calm her fears. Still, the kids wanted to go; the hot weather was their excuse to hit the water with the old man. Hey, I thought, I’d just started vacation. I haven’t been in the salt water in over two weeks, and I’m itching to unload my surfboard and get wet. The last thing I want to deal with on the way to the beach is another intifada.
At the next road block, a squadron of Mercava tanks was positioned for added security, barrels pointed toward the adjacent Arab village. Traffic had slowed to a crawl. I spotted a familiar face among the soldiers, a buddy of mine from a neighboring village.
“Avi,” I yelled out over the exasperated voices of the sweating, kvetching drivers. “What’s all this? Is it under control, or what?”
“You mean other than getting hit by rocks and bricks, Rabbi?” Avi answered with a touch of resignation. Then he leaned down and whispered “Listen, you might want to keep your weapon in your lap. Looks pretty bad this time, Rabbi. You might not be able to get back home if it heats up.”
“OK, OK, I just wanna make sure I paddle out before the tide changes on me.”
“Alright,” he relented as he stood up and signaled to two IDF troopers with Gallils slung barrel-down leaning against the tank’s treads. Then he waved my car and two others through.
The rest of the drive across the coastal plain was an uneasy affair. I turned off the special news bulletins and looked for an old sixties-vintage Dick Dale tape.
“Keep cool,” I said to myself “One more roadblock and it’s clear sailing to the coast.”
Perhaps it was my frame of mind. Maybe it was the by- now-comforting sight of my Uzi lying next to my surf wax. Maybe the familiar guitar riffs of Miserlou made me come to my senses.
Rivkah’s right, I thought. This is nuts. There’s a war going on—and I’m going surfing? What am I doing?
I took a deep breath and reflected on a life that had brought me to this point. How had I managed to get myself into these positions? I’d led the life of a comfortable, assimilated surfer, with a Volvo and a good credit rating. My major world-shattering concerns were wind-direction, wave-size, tide changes and whether I had forgotten to water my alfalfa sprouts before leaving for the day. By what freak of fate was I now going surfing, after passing through a combat zone, road blocks and barbed wire, armed with an automatic weapon and two loaded magazines?
