My father’s big hand lets me go and I run towards the tank full of boats. Dad has taken my sister Helene and I to a carnival that popped open, mushroom like, in the Bronx.
I climb into a boat, hoping I will be alone at the wheel and in the boat. Before the ride starts, I notice that each boat seems attached to a spoke of metal emanating from a central hub in the vast tub.
The ride starts, gasps of surprised glee from all lucky children in command of our own vessels. I turn the wheel, and the boat doesn’t respond, only going around in circles strapped to the arm of steel. I spin the wheel, madly now, in the opposite direction. No change in course.
The other children in their boats are smiling, happy, playing with their steering wheels, not seeming to mind that the boat goes where it wants to go, without help from you.
I am upset that I have no control. At the age of five or six, I am already wondering if life isn’t like the boat?
“Hey Rabbi, wake up, it’s Schwarmer-time!” Where am I….oh, fell asleep at the pool… Oh God (whose, which one?), I’m still in Saudi Arabia.