Moshe Gafni and I were fly fishing in Wyoming one early summer morning in 2006 when a thunderous cloudburst drenched our heads as wet as our kreels, forcing us up under the sheltering arms of a ponderosa pine on the river bank. We removed our shirts and hung them over a tree branch to dry as the sun came out as quickly as it had earlier disappeared. It was then I realized I knew no other Jew fishermen save Jesus, and he was just a fisher of men.
It was Moshe who first tentatively, yet with utmost courage, reached out to touch my forearm under the dappling sunlight. I started at his man's touch and a wave of fear and excitement swept over me as my face flushed.
Nutshell, after an hour or so of long, deep kissing and authentic touch, we shared raw almonds and apricots on a flat boulder that seemed placed there just for us by some ancient glacier, unaware of the satellite overhead capturing our every move in digital HD, reported back to the highest levels of the Mossad.
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