It was Thursday, June 30, a beautiful summer evening, an opportunity to launch the kayak at the beach located at the end of Fourth Street. At 7 p.m., my dog Chaya and I were on the water. My phone rang. I saw it was a congregant calling, so I took the phone out of my waterproof pouch, and we conversed while I rowed. As I was speaking, I noticed that Chaya was extremely interested in something in the water, more than usual. Perhaps it was the many oyster cages that are cleaning the water. Toward the end of my phone conversation, I saw that Chaya’s gaze in the water was becoming more fixated. And then, at one instant, she plopped in, head first.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I hollered into the phone while trying to shove it into the swim-secure pouch. I didn’t have time to secure it completely. Nevertheless, I tossed the bag to my friend, Father Roy, who was in his kayak, with his dog. I ripped the air pod from my ear, tossed it into my kayak, and jumped into the water.

As I jumped, my kayak capsized and my toss missed Father Roy’s kayak. The bag sank like a stone. It is supposed to float, but because I had stuffed it with my wallet, phone, car key, and all the rest of the keys to my life, it was too heavy. The water was about nine feet deep. I grabbed Chaya and swam to shore with her while Father Roy was in the water, attempting to find the pouch.

We dropped the dogs at my house, and returned to the beach to continue the search. It was getting dark. We tried to reconstruct our path through the water. We asked a young man near the beach if he had seen our pathway, and also if he knew anyone who could dive, perhaps a local person who deals with the oysters. We had already called the police, but they said they couldn’t help us. Neither could the fire department or a couple of diving places that did not see our predicament as a priority.

The young man apologized, said he was unfamiliar with the area, was here for the summer, going door-to-door to offer chemical-free pesticide service. And then he said, “I’ll help you find it.” By this time, it was too late to get back into the water. A storm was gathering, and the highest tide of the season had been predicted. Aiden, the young man, offered to come back the next day to help us. We exchanged phone numbers. This was encouraging. And even though it was dark out, my heart was starting to brighten up.

Like many stories in the Zohar, the main text of Kabbalah, when protagonists run into mysterious strangers — usually an old man with a donkey or holding a staff — they may at first impression seem unhelpful, but them turn out to be wise and prophetic.

The next day, one of the diving companies agreed to join us at 4 p.m., to spend one hour searching. That would cut it close to Shabbat but what choice did I have?  Also, Father Roy would have to come back to Greenport to point out the exact spot, which he felt he could identify. Shortly before 4, the diving company canceled; we were low on the priority list. We had called the police, fire department, and other rescue diving companies, but when those avenues failed, we decided to depend on ourselves. We bought two diving masks and snorkels.

At that exact moment, the phone rang. It was Aiden. He was on his way to us, ready to dive in the water to help. On my way to the kayak, I ran into one of the members of CTI, who had a friend staying for the weekend. When they heard where I was going and what I wanted to do, they immediately offered to help, too. Now, I was starting to feel like Dorothy on her way to the Wizard, collecting friends along the way.

We spent two hours diving. I was looking at the small bay that was starting to look more vast by the minute. Finding this one little bag in the middle of that expanse was looking like mission impossible. But I kept praying — Yaga’ta umatzata ta’amin — seek and you shall find. I was thinking of Moses who, according to a midrash, invoked the magic words Aleh Shor — “Rise bull” — in order to lift up the hidden, mummified body of Joseph from the waters of the Nile in order to take it with them in their exodus. I didn’t have magic words, but I was hoping my prayers would come through. Many times in my life, it was that extra effort that had proved fruitful. But after two hours, we were going to raise the white flag. We returned to the dock and started to dry off. We had really tried. I thanked the “benevolent strangers” and conveyed my immense gratitude.

Suddenly, as a by-the-way, Aiden asked, “Did you happen to have an air pod?”

“What?” Father Roy and I did a double take and asked, in shock, “You found an air pod bud?”

“Yes,” he said, “and here it is.”

We all jumped up. “The bag should be where you found the air pod,” we said. We took our positions again — the divers in the water, me guiding the kayak. We knew we were in the right place, and we remembered that the pouch was heavy.

This situation reminded me of the story of Mizmor L’Assaf in the Talmud (BT Kiddushin 31b in Rashi), which talks about a poor woman whose cheap clay jar fell into the well while she was drawing water. While she was crying over her jar, the king’s maidservant came with a jar of gold. She, too, dropped the vessel into the well. At that time, the poor woman started singing. She said, “Until now, I didn’t think anyone would go down into the well to retrieve my cheap clay jar. However, now I know that surely someone will go down to get the king’s golden vessel. So they’ll bring up mine too.”

In the Greenport Bay, we found the clay jar; now it was time to find the gold. What seemed to be insignificant was now our roadmap.

A few moments later, I saw Aiden coming out of the water with his arm stretched straight up into the air, like the Statue of Liberty. Instead of the fiery torch, he was holding my soaking wet blue pouch. We were elated. We shouted as though we had won the Super Bowl. The water had washed everything. A redemptive rebirth. Was it by a chance? By prayer? By persistence?  It was, for us, a miracle from heaven.

And the miracle did not end there. As it turned out, all was intact — wet, but intact. Moreover, the urban legend to bury the phone in rice for three days in order to dry it turned out to be true. After three days, my iPhone arose from the dead.

Aiden came to synagogue with me that evening. No, he isn’t Jewish — that would have been yet another miracle. But I wanted him to see the synagogue, and for people in the synagogue to meet him. Those present at the shul thanked Aiden for helping their rabbi. (The police did call back a couple of days later, promising to look into recording the emergency numbers of divers.)

So, what is the message here? Who saved the day? It wasn’t the respondents you might have expected. It was the willingness of a young lad from Oregon, here for a summer job. In response to my praise, he said, “I’m just a soul trying to do good in this world.” His attitude was a reward — enough to remember that human nature and spirit, when coming together with others, can turn any mission to possible.

As we approach the month of Av, the month of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem, let’s remember that this time can also be a time of rebuilding out of brokenness with simple love for a fellow human being. Isn’t that the real story?

Blessings for the month of Menachem Av.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela