Fishermen's children in thousands of inlets splashing around the shallow water, clutching a rusty can, string and some bread. They know them better than we Israelis know them - the gigantic luxury boats, whose engines burn hundreds of gallons of expensive gasoline an hour, speeding the world's wealthy across the waters.

I saw them for the first time last spring. It was at the little island of Poros in Greece's Saronic Gulf, whose harbor is always quiet at the start of the season. Men in white uniforms adorned with gold braids and young women in tailored business suits and high heels roamed around, handing out colorful brochures. Everything was in honor of the annual mega-yacht exhibition, aimed at travel agents specializing in luxury cruises.

The pier looked like an outlandish luxury destination in some oil emirate. The yachts were anchored side by side, tied with ropes as thick as oil pipes and connected to the pier with wide wooden bridges. The engines looked like multi-story buildings. The masts looked like giants. The bars on the deck and the tables set with china and crystal looked less real the more we looked.

	Advertisement

After a half-hour guided tour of eight cabins and the restrooms, we muttered a few words of thanks, because after all, how many luxury hotel rooms adorned with fine rugs and curtains can you see? But the company representative, who for some reason thought she could offer the fictitious customers this luxury behemoth for a week, including a crew of six who would sail, cook, serve, blend and amuse, continued to list every advantage the boat had over the 20 other boats next to it.

In the morning, as I stood on the deck of the rented sailboat (Bavaria 37, approximately 11 meters long, 3.8 meters wide, with three 1.6-meter cabins and a small service cabin), the pier was empty and only a few fishermen's boats and yachts were rocking in the wind. The intimate quiet of the Greek island had been restored, and the modest and friendly simplicity of the ships and their owners overshadowed the ostentatious display.

Don't be dazzled by the oversized reputation. Sailing is both a sport and a leisure activity, like cycling, off-roading or mountain climbing. To its discredit, it has been identified in Israel in recent years with eye-popping wealth. The floating villas, worth tens of millions of dollars, are unrelated to the small sailboats and the children who sail at the Tel Aviv marina every week.

They are also not related to the 50- and 60-year-olds who come early Saturday morning to their 20- or 30-year-old boats - or the relatively new boats purchased with a partner. They lovingly polish it, fix the peeling paint, replace the oil and worn-out engine parts, check the mainsail that tore during the last outing. Then they finally head out to sea, alone or with friends, children and grandchildren, turn the sail toward the wind, get hit with a few sprays of saltwater and inhale a deep breath of life. Nor are these luxury boats related to the old sea wolves who fly across the water in their catamarans, turn over, swallow some seawater and then stabilize.

If you want to know something about the real sailing experience, watch the final moments of excitement before a sailing competition - in the Acre harbor or along the berths of the Tel Aviv marina, or by the entrance to the Jaffa port, where the water crashes onto the breakers.

Right there, amid the swirling blue, the "sea goddesses" have set up, skippers full of goodwill and initiative. In a month, they will start teaching girls as part of a new organization called "Zvulun, daughters of the sea." They will teach them what they themselves are constantly learning: In total contrast to the mistaken reputation it has acquired, sailing is a wonderful way to learn restraint and to understand something about human limitations, to break away and to dream.

Which brings me back to the first time: It was in the early 1960s, with a group of 13-year-olds at the Reading inlet. There the narrow river widens into a roaring foam, rocking the boat. All of us, eyes sparkling with excitement, swore that when we grew up, we would be sailors. So why now, with Ahmadinejad, Sderot and all the poverty, have we suddenly remembered the sea? Because we have learned to look at those people in the rickety, modest boats, and we realize they are okay, and that we can learn something from them, and we have decided not to give up on what we promised ourselves when we were kids.