The Everyday Adventure: The Optimist Club Kayak the Mediterranean in Winter
- Ruth Bergman
- 14 minutes ago
- 11 min read
Back to Home Waters
It is the beginning of 2026, and I have been back home in Caesarea since October 15. As always, the first thing I did on returning was make my way back to the water—and back to my kayaking family at Optimist Kayak. Since then, I’ve been paddling several times a week, slipping into a rhythm that feels both familiar and quietly profound.
This kind of paddling is part of everyday life now. There is nothing exotic about driving down to the harbor, loading a kayak, and heading out into the Mediterranean before most people have finished their morning coffee. And yet, it is no less an adventure than anything I’ve done in distant places. The sea does not become smaller because it is close to home. Wind, swell, current, light, and weather still shape every outing. Every launch still carries uncertainty. Every return is still earned.
So I thought I would share what a week of winter paddling on the Mediterranean really looks like.
We are guided by a small team of highly professional instructors, and we paddle as a group of strong, experienced kayakers. That combination—skilled leadership and collective competence—is what makes daily adventures possible. We are able to go far, to handle rougher conditions, and to let the sea decide what kind of day it will be. Some days offer glassy water and long, meditative miles. Others bring chop, wind, and the quiet intensity of staying sharp for hours. The sea writes the script; we just show up ready.
I meant to start this chronicle last week. But winter had other plans. A storm rolled in and kept us off the water for days on end. That, too, is part of paddling in this season. You don’t force your way onto the sea in winter—you wait, and when the window opens, you go.
And so, when it finally did, this week began.
Saturday — West into the Deep
After a full week of waiting out the storm, I wake at 5:45 a.m. to a wonderfully mixed message on my phone:
“Good morning. We are paddling today. The sea is still above one meter…”
After days of being grounded, that is not a warning—it is an invitation. I am going. Oren rolls over and burrows deeper into the blankets. Clearly, he is not. Which means I am making my own coffee. Alas.
Five minutes later I’m at the club. So lucky. The club is already alive with quiet motion: neoprine, hot drinks, and kayaks loaded on carts. Everyone looks cold. Everyone looks happy. We had a New Year’s dance party on Thursday night, and bits of it are still floating through the air in laughter and half-forgotten stories. There is also that subtle edge of anticipation—what will the sea give us today?
Saturdays are usually huge: fifty paddlers is not unusual. But winter waves and cold have filtered out the half-hearted. The ones who are here are undeterred. I’ve learned to trust our guiding team completely—if they say we can paddle, then we can paddle.
At exactly 7 a.m., Hadas calls out, “Good morning!” and gives us the day in a handful of sentences. We’re heading southwest, toward the cranes, and then west, straight into the open Mediterranean.
I roll my kayak down to the beach. The sand still bears the handwriting of the storm—ridges, scars, patterns drawn by retreating water. I slide into my boat and push off, trying, as always, not to get wet right away. There are breakers, of course. There always are after a storm. I’m lucky today—only a few splashes of cold water creep down inside my paddling jacket instead of a full baptism.
We gather just beyond the surf line, waiting for everyone to make it out. Behind us, waves slam into the rocks that guard the little bay where we land. One of the paddlers gets caught by a bigger one and flips. Another kayak is instantly there, helping him back into the kayak. Winter paddling demands attention. The sea is not hostile—but it is not forgiving.
Then we go.
Once past the breaking waves, the conditions are glorious. A long, rolling swell softened by a moderate east wind. We find our rhythm and head for the cranes, regrouping at the end of the pier. We call this place the pita. No one seems to know why. Maybe because it’s round.
Some paddlers turn back here. I never do. The long paddle is always the point.
As we head west, the wind is at our backs. The boats feel light. Playful. I notice, with quiet satisfaction, that I no longer get the nervous flutter in my stomach that used to accompany this direction—the pull of open water, the invisible edge of the map. Now it just feels like… paddling.
We stop when the leader decides we stop. It always feels longer than expected. I look back toward the coast. It is thin and pale and improbably distant.
Eventually, what goes out must come back. Now we ride the swell but paddle into the wind. It’s work, but not punishing. Just steady.
The bay finally rises up in front of us. Now comes the part I least enjoy in winter: the landing. Capsizing on the way in is cold, exhausting, and humiliating. I choose the cautious line, slipping through the waves instead of riding them. I make it in cleanly, dry enough to feel victorious. From shore, I get to photograph others surfing their kayaks all the way to the beach.
Back at the club, wet gear is piled everywhere and steam rises from cups of tea. Someone has a birthday. Glasses are raised. We toast another awesome day on the sea.
Sunday — Walking the Waterline
On Sundays, the club is closed. Even the most dedicated guides deserve a day off. But the sea doesn’t close, and neither does the need to be near it.
So I go on foot.
I leave home and set out on a long looping walk—down to the far end of Caesarea, then back along the beach. It comes out to about eleven kilometers, which at my steady ten-minutes-a-kilometer pace is just enough to feel like real exercise without turning into a grind. I put on an episode of Acquired, this one about Costco, and let it occupy the busy part of my brain while the rest of me moves through familiar ground.
About a kilometer in, I reach the bird mosaic—what remains of a Roman villa that stood here two thousand years ago. Tiny stones still form wings and feathers, stubbornly beautiful against the blue of the sea behind them. I pause, take it in, and then keep walking.
A few kilometers later I pass the Prime Minister’s house. I don’t linger. Some things belong to the news; others to the water and the sky.
At the roundabout marking the edge of Caesarea, the pavement gives way to sand dunes. I climb a low ridge, and suddenly the Mediterranean opens up in front of me. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this. That first full view of the sea always lands with the same quiet force.
The next four kilometers run straight along the beach. The wind is up now, flinging sand against my legs in tiny stings. It’s a winter weekday, and almost no one is out here. The vastness feels amplified by the emptiness. In my ears, Costco is merging with Price Club; in front of me, waves fold endlessly onto shore.
I reach the old Roman port, Caesarea’s great tourist jewel. Columns, arches, ancient stones stacked against the sea. It is impossible not to feel the weight of time here—civilizations rising and falling, while the water keeps moving in and out, unbothered.
Another kilometer, and I am home.
I didn’t paddle today. But I saw the sea, breathed it in, and carried it with me for eleven quiet kilometers. That’s enough.
Monday — Against the Wind
I crack open my eyes. It’s barely dawn outside—5:40 a.m. The palm trees in my garden are shaking hard, and I already know what the morning will bring.
A message from Hadas lights up my phone: "Good morning. Very strong wind. Around 20 knots..."
Normally, a day like this might keep me home. But this week is about sharing the sea in all its forms, and that means sometimes embracing its less welcoming moods.
Twelve of us take to the water. Everyone complains about the cold. It's not bitter cold, but the wind chill bites sharply where skin meets air.
The water isn’t glassy today. The east wind has beaten it down into a surface of restless ripples. Even the smoke from the chimney at the power station doesn’t rise—it goes straight sideways, like a warning. Foreboding.
We do not venture far. It’s too dangerous. Instead, we stick close to the bay, skirting the shore and the jagged edge of the rocks. A little “rock gardening,” as kayakers call it—careful maneuvers around boulders, a quiet test of skill.
Over the hour we spend out there, the wind seems to grow stronger. On the return leg from our second circuit, I push hard, leaning into each stroke, feeling the resistance of both wind and water.
It’s a short outing. Just an hour, barely four kilometers. And yet it is enough. I am on the sea. I have moved my body. I am reminded, once more, that the Mediterranean is not always a friend.
Sometimes, adventure is measured not in miles or duration—but in showing up.
Tuesday — Southbound, Seeking Sharks
The morning’s message leaves no room for hesitation:
“Lively wind, and a gorgeous sea. Come paddle.”
Some invitations cannot be declined.
The routine unfolds as it always does—coffee, toast, layers of neoprene and fleece, packing gear, then down to the club to load the kayak. By the time I’m ready, the wind is already stronger than forecast, so the guides decide to take us south.
As soon as we’re on the water, I ask if we can stop to look for sharks.“On the way back,” I’m told. Always on the way back.
Getting on the water is, as ever, pure bliss. The sea is flat and cooperative, with just a slight pull from the wind. We paddle toward the power station, gliding under the pier—a powerful testament to human engineering—and continue south toward Olga. We pass the small white building we call the White House, then a few groups of surf-skis slicing cleanly through the chop. Eyal pulls us up in front of the lifeguard station at Olga, and we pause for a quick drink and a moment of stillness.
Then we turn back.
As we approach the power station again, we slow. This is where the warm water from the plant spills into the sea, and in winter it draws sharks—sleek, ancient visitors to our shoreline. We don’t have many large animals here: birds, fish, jellyfish, the occasional turtle. Sharks are special. Today, though, they keep their distance. The water is empty.
The rest of the way home is an easy, relaxed paddle. Windsurfers skim across the surface on their foils. Surfers try their luck on tiny winter waves. The Mediterranean is busy, playful, alive.
Eleven kilometers. Another happy day, still floating on saltwater.
Wednesday — Northbound, Expecting the Unexpected
The palm trees are perfectly still when I wake. That’s usually a good sign—a quiet, promising morning on the water.
Today we’re heading north, the direction we most often paddle.
As I launch, I notice a few of the group slipping out of the bay through the narrow slit in the rocks. I hadn’t managed to photograph it on Monday, so I turn toward it as well. I get the shot. But with my hands on the camera instead of the paddle, I drift farther into the gap than I should. A wave lifts my kayak, then drops it, and wedges me neatly front to back in the slit, sideways.
People sometimes ask if I flip often. The answer is no—unless there are waves, or unless you do something foolish. This morning, I checked both boxes.
Fortunately, one of the guys is right there. A quick rescue, and I’m upright again—wet, cold, and suddenly very awake.
We paddle on toward the small village of Jisr az-Zarqa. In this direction the lead group doesn’t stop to regroup, so I spend the next stretch chasing them, pushing hard. I’ve already been baptized by the sea; now I earn my workout.
The coast scrolls past like a moving gallery. I pass the old town of Caesarea, fishermen on the dock. The Roman aqueduct glows in the low morning sun. I slide past the dunes I walked over on Sunday. Then comes our former defense minister with his two-boat entourage—my tax shekels at work—surf-skiing in a red shirt, no life vest. I take note and paddle on.
Eventually I catch the back of the lead group and we reach Jisr. I pull into the little port to drain the water sloshing in my kayak.
Then we turn around.
The way back is steady and smooth: dunes, aqueduct, old town, and finally the club. Familiar landmarks, now seen from the other direction.
Twelve kilometers. Another great, great morning on the sea.
Thursday — The Calm Before the Storm
Another storm is forecast for tomorrow—one that will keep us off the water for almost a week. So Oren takes the hint and comes paddling with me today. The best part, of course, is that he makes the coffee.
We head north. The wind is a little stronger than yesterday—exactly the same sea, and yet completely different. As soon as we pass the old town of Caesarea, the water turns choppy, restless, tugging at the kayaks.
It took me years to learn how to keep a sea kayak going where I want it to go when the water has other ideas. Now, thankfully, I hardly notice the small adjustments—leaning slightly, pulling a bit harder on one side—quiet corrections that keep me moving forward. The body remembers what the mind no longer needs to think about.
We reach the dunes and turn back. Oren has work. I have an appointment. The wind is rising. Eight kilometers is enough.
The paddle home is the calmest of the week. I fall far enough behind the others that all I can hear is my own blade dipping and lifting, plopping and sloshing through the water. I love how quickly the world falls away out here—how fifty meters from shore is all it takes for the noise of daily life to vanish.
Just before we reach the club, I spot Leila practicing rolls, flipping her kayak and coming back up with effortless grace. I save that kind of water acrobatics for summer, but I never get tired of watching it. There is something beautiful about mastery in motion.
Another morning, quietly complete.
Grateful for the Everyday Adventure
I know how fortunate I am.
I’ve found something I love that I can do, almost unbelievably, right outside my door. Five minutes of driving, a kayak on my shoulder, and I’m on the Mediterranean. It’s easy to take that kind of access for granted. It’s even easier to stay in bed, make another cup of coffee, and tell yourself you’ll go tomorrow.
But this week was a reminder of why I don’t.
The sea changes too quickly. Storms arrive. Wind rises. Windows close. If you wait for perfect conditions, you miss half the beauty. Some of the best moments this week came from days that looked uncertain at 5:40 in the morning.
There’s also something deeply grounding about showing up again and again to the same stretch of water. I’m not chasing novelty out here. I’m learning a place—its moods, its currents, its light. I’m learning how my body moves within it. I don’t think anymore about edging a kayak against the wind or correcting for a wave. I just do it. That, too, is a kind of quiet gift.
And then there are the people: the guides who read the sea, the paddlers who share it, the small rituals—coffee made for me, a rescue in a rock slit, a birthday toast after landing. Even on days when we don’t go far, we go together.
So my takeaway from this week is simple: don’t miss the chance to get on the water. Tomorrow might be too windy, too stormy, too different. And even when you can’t paddle, the sea is still there—wild, beautiful, alive.
This is the everyday adventure.
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