Digging by the Sea

I was dreaming of the sea, paddling a rescue boat far beyond the breakers toward silence and tranquility. Tired of rowing, I dove into the water and pulled strongly downward listening to the silence of the deep. There was a ringing sensation in my ears. Half asleep on my cot, I was dimly aware of a distant rooster crowing and the pounding of the surf far below. Annoyed, I started for the surface. The noise persisted, and I slowly realized it was an alarm clock blasting over the camp PA. It was 4:30 a.m. and the beginning of another day at Tel Michal.

I could hear curses outside the tent and rocks hitting the loudspeaker as someone tried to silence its raucousness. “I volunteered for this?”, I thought with disgust.

I rolled over feeling my overworked muscles protest and resist and plotted my strategy for the next half hour. I would stay in bed for another 15 minutes, then bolt, dress, grab my gear, and run for the bus which left for the site at five a.m. Our camp, which was near the old mosque of Sidni Ali, was three kilometers from the excavation to which we were bused daily.

I could hear my six tent-mates walking around me, trying to find canteens, smearing suntan lotion on scorched bodies, and munching on crackers and rolls. One of them, Kate Willette of Winona, Minnesota, came in with a mug of coffee and tempted me. Coffee. I inhaled deeply. The smell of it, of even the thick muddy, gritty, Israeli coffee, roused me. Maybe I could get up after all.

“Last call, last call for the buses,” bawled Fred Brandfon, one of the supervisors. The laggards among us hastily dressed and sprinted. I stole a glance at the eastern horizon. It was a pale, yellow pink.