A Journey Through Time and Terrain.

The hum of my car’s engine was a familiar companion as I drove toward Ben Gurion Airport, the road stretching out like a ribbon under the predawn sky. My suitcase was packed for a 14-day business trip to Australia and New Zealand, filled with slide presentations, medical equipment manuals, and the weight of responsibility. As the company’s medical device specialist, I was tasked with training distributors and hospital staff on our state-of-the-art portable ECMO machine. But as the highway blurred past, my mind slipped away, tumbling back to 1983, to a moment that roared with adrenaline and danger.

I was reliving my past. I was 34, gripping the wheel of my Alfa Romeo Giulietta 2.0 Turbo, its engine snarling like a caged beast. My army buddy Shlomo sat beside me, his navigator’s map crinkled and marked, his voice steady as he called out turns. We were racing in the 1983 Monte Carlo Rallye, a grueling 650-kilometer gauntlet through France’s mountainous terrain toward Monaco. My car, a privateer’s dream, was tuned to perfection by an Italian technician at my Alfa dealer. I could still picture him, ear cocked, demanding silence as he adjusted each of the four Weber carburetors and the turbocharger by sound alone. No music, no other engines, just the purr of my trusted Alfa, running smooth as silk but with a wild roar.

The rally was a beast of its own. Heavy snowfall blanketed the two-lane roads, some barely wide enough, others unpaved dirt tracks that twisted through the Alps. The terrain was wild, jagged cliffs loomed on one side, sheer drops on the other. The roads were a patchwork of ice, gravel, and slush, each turn a gamble. Our Pirellis bit into the snow, the bumps rattling my bones. The car lurching as we pushed 140 kph on straights, then fishtailed through hairpin bends. Shlomo’s calls were my lifeline: “In 30 left, 45 tight!” I’d wrench the wheel, the rear end spinning out, gravel spraying like shrapnel. I love rear wheel drive, better controllable than front wheel drive.

Then it happened. A sharp right turn, hidden by a snowdrift. Shlomo shouted, but too late. The car skidded, tires screaming, off the road we went. The world tilted. My heart pounded, with a heartbeat going through the roof. We rolled over, once, twice, three times, metal crunching. The polycarbonate windscreen and door windows didn’t shatter. The strong safety roll cage protected us in the cockpit. The carbon Kevlar door panels kept their shapes. Our six-point safety harnesses kept us tight in our seats, our helmets held our heads stable. The car slammed into a tree with a sickening thud, the impact jarring every nerve. Silence followed, broken only by the hiss of steam from the wrecked engine and the foam emitted from the automatic fire extinguisher. Shlomo and I squeezed out of the windows. We were unscathed but shaken. The car was a total loss, its frame twisted beyond repair. We stood in the snow, breath fogging, staring at the wreckage, our dream car beyond recognition.

With a gulp of air, I snapped back to the present. The airport loomed ahead. I parked, checked in, and an hour later boarded my El Al flight to Paris. With only an hour layover, on Air France-KLM with a stopover in Singapore to Sydney. Business class, standard with my company for flights longer than six hours. It offered me a cocoon of comfort. I settled into my seat, the hum of the Airbus 380’s engines lulling me into a doze. But my mind, restless, plunged me into another memory, the Yom Kippur War, 1973.

It was 1973. I was 25, a paratrooper landing on the Golan Heights behind Syrian lines in the second day of the Yom Kippur war. The air was thick with smoke, the stench of diesel and explosives. Syrian tanks, their treads grinding, fired relentlessly, their shells shaking the earth as they prepared to roll downhill into Israel. My unit hit the ground running, RPGs slung over our shoulders, adrenaline spiking. The firefight was chaos. Bullets zipped past, tracer rounds glowing red in the dusk. We took cover behind rocks, returning fire with M16s and Uzis, the crack of each shot deafening. Syrian infantry advanced, their AK-47s spitting lead. I aimed my RPG, the rocket streaking toward a T-62 tank. It hit, erupting in a fireball, the turret blown skyward. Three more tanks fell to our precision strikes, aided by Israeli jets screaming overhead, their bombs shaking the ground.

But the Syrians pressed harder. Russian made personnel carriers tried to encircle us, their machine guns chattering. On my right flank, four of my comrades were overrun, dragged away as prisoners. We fought to free them, lobbing grenades, but the Syrian tanks, four still operational, were the priority. We couldn’t let them break through. My heart raced, torn between rescue and defense, as the battle raged on.

A gentle tap on my shoulder pulled me back to reality. A stewardess stood over me, smiling. She offered me steak, fish, or vegetarian, and a choice of wine. I opted for steak with a glass of Barolo, the deep purple hue grounding me in the present. The flight droned on, and I let the meal and wine ease the tension of my memories.

Australia was a whirlwind of work. In Sydney and Melbourne, I led training workshops for our distributor, visited hospitals, and demonstrated the portable ECMO machine to cardiologists, surgeons, and nurse technicians. The Aussies are hospitable and friendly, their humor infectious, making long days feel lighter. One evening, despite the winter chill, I was invited to a classic Aussie ‘Barbie’. We huddled in ski jackets around gaslit burners, the air filled with the sizzle of tenderloin and T-bone steaks. Blooming onions, baked potatoes slathered with sour cream, chives, and red pepper flakes rounded out the feast. The Chardonnay was crisp, the Shiraz bold, and the conversations flowed as freely as the wine.

From Melbourne, I flew to Auckland for the New Zealand leg. The schedule mirrored Australia’s: workshops, hospital visits, and demonstrations in Auckland, Christchurch, and Wellington. But the weekend brought a welcome break. I stayed with an old college friend, an Israeli cardiologist, and his Māori wife, Nyrah, a retired OR nurse turned ski instructor after their first baby was born. Their three kids of six, eight, and 12 filled their home with energy. Before dinner, Nyrah, her 12-year-old son Daniel, and a neighbor played traditional Māori music. The Pūtōrino’s haunting notes, the Pūtātara’s oceanic hum, and the Hine Raukatauri’s ethereal tones captivated me.

Dinner was a Hāngī, a Māori feast cooked in an earth oven since dawn. The chicken, lamb, pork, seafood, and kūmara were melt-in-the-mouth tender, the flavors rich and smoky. After dinner, Daniel taught me the Haka, the Māori war dance. I stomped my feet, slapped my chest, widened my eyes, and stuck out my tongue, trying to growl “Ka Mate! Ka Mate!” (Will I die!) and “Ka Ora! Ka Ora!” (Will I live!) with menace. My baritone wobbled, and the kids laughed, but I felt the dance’s primal power.

Sunday was unforgettable: helicopter skiing on Mount Cook, or Aoraki. The chopper ride was rough, high winds buffeting us as we ascended to 3,700 meters. The thin air made my head light, my breaths shallow, forcing me to focus on each inhale to adapt to the low oxygen. We landed hard on a snowy ridge, the skids skittering before settling. Outside, the weather was brutal, minus 25°C, with gusts whipping snow into my face. The terrain was untouched, deep powder reaching my hips in places, nothing like the groomed slopes I was used to.

Skiing was exhilarating but punishing. I carved through the snow, my thighs burning, only to wipe out when a hidden drift caught my skis. I tumbled, snow stuffing my jacket, the cold biting my skin. The wind howled, visibility dropping as clouds rolled in. Another fall sent me sliding, my poles lost, until I dug in and stopped. Each run demanded focus, adapting to the terrain, bracing against the wind, conserving energy in the thin air. By the end, I was battered but buzzing, the raw beauty of Aoraki etched into my soul.

The long flight home was exhausting, and I sank into a deep sleep on the first leg from Auckland to Singapore, only to be swept into another dream.

I was in a race with my friend Rob in his Hobiecat 18 off Rhodes’ north coast, the wind screaming, waves crashing over the bow. Rob steered, wrestling the mainsail, while I manned the jib and spinnaker, hanging from the trapeze. Dolphins leaped beside me, their sleek bodies glinting, nearly brushing my legs, with their whistling and clicking sounds. The winds shifted wildly, our lead vanishing as we dropped to fourth, then sixth. Waves tossed us, the Cat tilting precariously. Most boats capsized, but we held on, neck-and-neck with a French boat. The finish was a blur of spray, cameras unable to determine a clear winner. We tied for first, the thrill electric.

Reality intruded during takeoff from Singapore. A man, maybe in his eighties, and who sat across from me in the aisle, crawled from his seat, and collapsed in the aisle next to me. Ignoring the stewardess's orders, I unbuckled and checked on him. No pulse, no throbbing carotid, no breathing. My old first aid training kicked in. I started CPR. The plane was still ascending. The steward spotted me and commanded me over the PA system to sit down and buckle up. He then realized what was happening, and stumbled, almost crawled down the aisle. A stewardess called on the PA if there was a doctor on the plane. In the meantime, the plane leveled, and the captain came with two doctors who observed me and approved my CPR technique. Eventually, one took over. After maybe 10 minutes, he shook his head. The man was gone. The woman who sat next to him, assumably his wife, started screaming. The captain returned to the cockpit and announced we were returning to Singapore because of a ‘seriously ill’ passenger. I helped the steward and a stewardess to put the man in a body bag. I never knew they had one on board. We hauled it to one of the bathrooms which was then of course locked. After landing, medics boarded, confirmed the death, and took my statement and of other passengers’ around us. The body and his grieving wife were taken off the plane. Thirty minutes later, we were airborne again. I squeezed my arm if what just happened was real and not one of my dreams. It was real.

Before we started to descend towards Paris, the steward asked me to come with him to the front. There the captain thanked me for what I had tried to do. He asked for my address and if I liked wine. Three weeks later I received a box at home with two bottles of one of the best Israeli wines, courtesy of Air France-KLM.

The El Al flight back in Tel Aviv was uneventful: no dreams, no dead people. I dragged myself through the airport, the weight of the trip, its triumphs, its chaos, its relentless pace, settling into my bones. My house was quiet, the kind of stillness that feels like a gift after weeks of motion. My wife, Miriam, was asleep, her soft breathing a reminder of the life waiting for me. Our two boys and twin daughters, now grown, lived nearby with their own families, and the thought of my grandchildren, six little whirlwinds aged one, two, three, five, 10 and 12, brought a tired smile to my face. I collapsed into bed, expecting the usual torrent of dreams, but for once, my mind was still. No rallies, no wars, no catamarans. Just the deep, dreamless sleep of a man who’d been running too long.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as I sipped my strong ristretto, the bitter warmth grounding me. Miriam joined me, her eyes crinkling with that knowing look she’d perfected over 30 years of marriage. “You look like you’ve been through a war,” she teased, sliding a plate of fresh fruits and chunks of Lindt bitter chocolate my way. I laughed, the sound rough but genuine, and told her about the trip. Not just the workshops and hospital visits, but the wild dreams, the Haka, the helicopter skiing, the man who died during takeoff. She listened, her hand resting on mine, and I felt the anchor of her presence.

Later that day, I drove to my daughter Leah’s house. The moment I stepped through the door, my grandchildren swarmed me, their voices a chaotic symphony of “Saba! Saba!” (Grandpa!). The four-year-old, Noa, demanded I play “airplane,” so I hoisted her onto my shoulders, zooming around the living room while her brothers, Eli and David, chased us, giggling. We collapsed in a heap, breathless and laughing, and for a moment, the world was simple, just love, noise, and the smell of Miriam’s cookies in the oven.

But as the kids scampered off to raid the cookie jar, my thoughts turned inward. This trip, like so many before it, had been a high-wire act, demanding, exhilarating, but pulling me away from these moments. My work was meaningful, saving lives through the machines I trained others to use, yet it came at a cost. Long flights, time zones, and hotel rooms blurred together, stealing days I could’ve spent with Noa’s sticky hugs or Eli’s endless questions about the stars. I’d raced cars, fought wars, skied mountains, and sailed seas, but what did it mean if I missed the quiet victories of home?

Sitting on Leah’s couch, I watched David build a wobbly Lego tower, his tongue poking out in concentration. Life, I realized, was like that tower, precarious, built brick by brick, always at risk of toppling if you didn’t balance it right. My younger self had craved speed, danger, the rush of defying odds. But now, at 68, I saw the deeper challenge: weaving the thrill of purpose with the steady rhythm of family. Work fed my mind, gave me a mission, but family was my pulse, the beat that kept me whole.

I thought back to the Haka, to “Ka Mate! Ka Ora!” (Will I die? Will I live?). It wasn’t just a war cry. It was a question life asked every day. To live, truly, was to choose both, the fire of ambition and the warmth of home. I’d been lucky, surviving crashes, wars, and storms, but luck wasn’t enough anymore. I needed intention. Shorter trips, maybe, or bringing Miriam along when I could. Scheduling calls with the grandkids, even from halfway across the world, to hear Noa’s silly songs or David’s latest Lego masterpiece. Small acts, but they’d hold the tower steady.

That evening, back home, I sat with Miriam on our balcony, the Mediterranean breeze carrying the scent of salt and jasmine. We talked about the future, retirement looming, the pull of more time with the kids, maybe even a trip together to New Zealand, to ski or learn the Haka as a family. “You’re still chasing something,” she said, her voice gentle but sharp. “Just make sure it’s us, too.”

She was right. Life wasn’t a rally, a war, or a race to be won. It was a dance, like the Haka. Fierce, deliberate, a balance of strength and surrender. I’d spent decades charging forward, but now I wanted to pause, to savor the steps, to hold my family close while still reaching for the horizon. The road ahead would be winding, bumpy, unpredictable, but I’d navigate it with both hands, one on the wheel, one holding Miriam’s.