Instead they smooth suntan lotion all over, and work on their tans. They nap, and chat, and snack, and wade into the water when the sun gets too hot. The muscular boys eye the bikini-clad girls while the little kids squeal and chase each other and dig holes and tunnels and they all spend endless, endless hours smacking a little rubber ball back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, with wooden paddles at the edge of the surf.

I saw all this and came to the conclusion that Jews go to the beach pretty much like everyone else. But then I looked out to the sea, out to the endless expanse of calm, green water, and then up and down the beach at the soft, hot sand. I was struck by how similar this beach, and this surf, and this ocean are to every other beach, every other surf, every other ocean. Then I turned around and saw an endless parade of high-rise elegance, concrete and glass, asphalt and steel hotels, office towers, stores, and traffic, so much traffic, and people and city noise and city tumult, and business and pleasure, and life!

I tried to imagine what it was like for the early settler-builder-pioneers to stand on this beach, not quite a century ago, and dream Tel Aviv. I tried and tried. I failed.

But now I understand how Jews go to the beach, sometimes. Sometimes, we go to the beach, and we stand among the dunes and the gentle waves, and we look out at the beach-scape, and we dream that one day we will build a home.