IF YOU WANT TO KNOW why there's no workable Middle East peace process, try orchestrating the movements of a few dozen Israeli Jew, Israeli Arab, and Palestinian surfers from an apartment in Tel Aviv. The rough plan had been to bring in Arab surfers from the gritty neighborhood of Jaffe, as well as half a dozen or so teenage and twenty-something Palestinian surfers from Gaza who'd received surfboards from Doc when he and David visited two months before. But the Paskowitzes landed in Israel to find that their contact in Jaffe had been busted, allegedly for selling hashish, and apparently wouldn't be getting out of jail until spring. Meanwhile, Arthur had discovered that some, or maybe all, of the Gaza contingent were Hamas supporters, which in and of itself didn't have to be an issue—they were still surfers, after all—except the border crossing was now closed. The Palestinian surfers couldn't come to Tel Aviv, and the Israelis couldn't enter Gaza.

Add to that the high hopes for Kelly's arrival, the negotiations with Sakal Sports over his schedule once he did arrive, and the Paskowitzes' low-key organizational style, and pretty much all progress ground to a halt. Kelly, meanwhile, was just doing his thing. "I thought, We're gonna play some music, surf, and take some kids out in the water," he said later; he didn't know his friends' plans were hinging on him. "They've always done things home style, low-maintenance," he said. "Like ‘Let's meet at the beach and go surfing.'"

That seemed to be the M.O. so far. I'd met the family Sunday night. Monday morning, I headed back over to Arthur's apartment to find Doc, who'd just returned from a short swim. "I'm about four pounds overweight," he announced, pulling at the sides of his stomach while explaining his prescriptions for full living as outlined in the book he self-published last year, Surfing and Health.

"You're a handsome, striking man," Doc said, looking me over, "but if you lost 20 to 30 pounds, just think how much more productive you'd be personally, professionally as a writer, and sexually. I tell you, you need to be out there exercising—or, better yet, surfing.

"Man is not made for peace," he explained. "There can be a cease-fire between wars, a kind of tiring of the bloodletting, but peace will be hundreds of years away." Still, he added, "men can achieve peacefulness for themselves, tranquillity, enough food to eat, a place to lay their head down, shelter from the winds and the rain." The joy brought by surfing could take that to a higher level, advancing the "principles of peacefulness," Doc said. "It's my chance to see the start of the road toward peace."

As Doc and I talked, more of the gang was assembling. A third Paskowitz brother, 46-year-old filmmaker Jonathan, arrived from New York, where he'd been promoting a documentary, Surfwise, about the Paskowitz clan. Makua Rothman was there, too, with his dad, "Fast Eddie" Rothman, known in Hawaii as the don of the North Shore. Both Rothmans were short, intense, and deeply, deeply tanned.

Apparently, the youth surf clinics were going to wait until Kelly's arrival. That left concert rehearsals with Malca Baya. Makua had never played onstage, and the rest of the Paskowitz-Rothman-Slater supergroup had work to do before they were ready for prime time. Monday night was spent practicing in a cramped studio in the warehouse district of south Tel Aviv.

Tuesday brought more waiting. Throughout Tel Aviv, the number of false Kelly Slater sightings was steadily growing, but he wasn't in town yet and it was hard to tell if anyone was actually in direct contact with him.

When in doubt, surf. The clan headed over to Hilton Beach, where, when the waves are good, there can be more than a hundred surfers. Today there were a dozen. Arthur maneuvered around people on his shortboard while David caught a few rides before heading in to talk with the locals. Makua paddled out while his dad, who hadn't taken off his wraparound black sunglasses, even at night, watched from the sand.

Doc complained of stomach pain before plopping down in a plastic chair. He'd been feeling poorly for several days, leaving most of the organizational work to his boys—though he wasn't always pleased with the results. "My sons," Doc said later, "they're a colossal pain in the ass. I do respect David's tremendous choreographic ability; I do respect Joshua's wonderful entertaining capability; I do respect Jonathan's great surfing skill and his intensity with getting involved, helping others. But with that respect comes the feeling that these bastards are going to drive me crazy!" 

David was bearing most of the strain. "Making this happen has become one of the most important moments in my life," he told me several times over the course of the week. But by Wednesday, with still no sign of Kelly, tensions were running high. Arthur was focusing on Friday's concert, trying to get any of the Gaza surfers to Tel Aviv, and generally trying to avoid the corporate demands of Sakal Sports. "I'm so, so over this!" he finally blurted. "All along I wanted to do something simple and keep it about the surfing! No one wants to listen to me anymore."

To make matters worse, the planned OneVoice concert in Jericho had been canceled because of security concerns. Now Bryan Adams wasn't coming, and OneVoice was scrapping both gigs.