Last Sunday I packed a bag, snuggled Nigel goodbye and drove to Metarie for the first time since April? A long time. I pulled into my hotel, got checked in and upstairs — got ready for my appointment with the Bais Din — and realised I didn’t pack my trousers. Apparently, I got my hands mixed up and put the trousers aside and the cargo shorts in the suitcase. So that was the first sign it was going to be an interesting event, I was going to probably one of the most formal events in my life in jeans. I did put on the dress shirt and the sweater, but still — jeans.
The interview went pretty well, and I felt good about that, the rabbi’s were awesome and very nice, even when asking about my mental illness they seemed to have a good understanding that I wasn’t bug eyed crazy or anything, just need meds and therapy. So I went back to the hotel in a pretty good mood and poked the internet a bit, eventually trying to sleep. I got maybe an hour or two before the alarm went off.
I got showered and dressed and headed to the marina, with only GPS and a vague idea from a brief look at the map where I was going. I was the last to arrive, but not too late apparently, and we were all masked and as socially distant as we could be. There were four of us, and the ladies went first, which was fine with me.
When it finally got to be my turn I went down to the cabin below and changed into my best SCA tunic in my favorite color and out of everything else. My manatee ass squeezes out of the aft doors and then over the rail to the swim platform. It’s cold in the boathouse, a brisk wind even with some walls.
Now, I want this to be dignified. I want it to be a transformative experience. And then my foot slips, my hand misses its grip and I’m underwater attempting to drink Lake Pontchartrain. The water is COLD. I come up the first time, get steady on the ladder and try to breathe air and cough water, while the rabbi who is supervising is freaking out. I finally get enough air to tell him I just have to catch my breath. So I wheeze for a minute and damned if I don’t slip again. Once again I get myself sorted and actually go under on purpose and it’s a good dunk. So then I have to haul myself up the ladder and back onto the boat, and catch my breath enough to say the brachas.
Then I go take a hot shower to wash the diesel and bayou water off and get dressed, go up for a l’chaim and a quick prayer service since we had ten Jews. I got to say kaddish for my grandmother, which was really good since it is her yahrzeit. My first kosher minyan and I’m the tenth man.
We left the marina and went to a local kosher supervised cafe and had cafe au lait and beignets while the rabbis all signed the paperwork and we all chatted. I went back to my room to pack up and called my mum, put on my tefillin for the first time as a kosher Jew and then went to the local kosher market and bought too much food and came home. After I had some dinner I lit my menorah and the yahrzeit candle and it was really nice.
All the fatman fumbling aside, maybe it was a transformative experience. I definitely feel lighter somehow, like a weight has been lifted off me, and in a much better mood. I have a feeling I’m going to get some better sleep from now on.
Now for those of you who like coincidence — when I was baptized into the Mormon church as a teen they had to dunk me three times, and I ended up dunking three times trying to hang onto the boat. When I used to go to the mikvah I would also dunk three times. Third time’s the charm!