Dispatch 5- The Grand Boating Race

Camp, Day 5

Friday, June 12

I slept unbelievably well after staying up for a full overtime the night before. I swore any smarmy Lakers fans would have words from me. I posted another letter before flag, the second this week. So far I’m satisfied with the communication lines I’ve been able to set up. Most of my break time will be devoted to keeping those lines open.

After breakfast, we headed down to the lake, while the girls went further around the edge to the archery range. Nick and his motley crew of half-caste lifeguards were there to greet us. There are both canoes and paddleboats, but the canoes are the only way to go around in style.

For our entertainment, Nick had arranged a Grand Boating Race to make up for the humiliation of the soccer game the night previous. To stack the odds against the Odds (we were playing odd cabins versus evens), the enemy was given a broom and an eight-foot drainpipe instead of paddles in one canoe. It was 5 v. 5, and we wiped the deck with them. Immediately as the race started, I cried furiously to my helmsman to back him on his life, and brought the craft about once we had warped her clear. We were running hot in the lanes; the engineer was stoking for all his worth. The helmsman ran her near to the scuppers, and split my sides if we didn’t scrape the paint off her. The bow swung wide as we shot around the marker, but I clutched the tiller like a man possessed. We steamed into port to jubilant cheers from the onlookers. I gallantly raised my hat to the patrons on shore, who gave us a hearty three cheers in return. It was a magnificent spectacle.

Next we went over to the archery range, which is infested with gopher tortoises, snakes, and probably weasels. The gopher tortoises are usually pretty chill, though Brandon told me last year a baby struck out for the guy’s cabin area. I saw one the other day galumphing across the driving range. The bugger made it all the way across camp by the end of the day, and plopped into the swamp near the counselor’s parking lot. If I end up with a tortoise or a alligator underneath my car when I’m leaving on the weekends, I’m going to be displeased.

However, the only wildlife in this area that I have a true fear of are the Sandhill cranes, snakes and weasels aside. These birds closely resemble miniature ostriches, but with sharp, pointed beaks. The hunters have a red mark upon the eye, and are frequently seen sulking near the gym or the mess hall area. Unwary campers should take note, for we’ve lost about a dozen expendable CITs to the insatiable beasts so far. They are bold, cunning hunters, and sometimes even come to the doors of the gym seeking prey. Our gameskeeper, however, has prepared equally deceptive lures for these raptors, who are apparently afflicted with a touch of vanity. They cannot resist the sight of their own reflection. They will stare into mirrors for hours on end. Trapping the beasts is not a problem. Keeping them contained is. The 100,000 gallons of concrete should be here on Tuesday.

Archery was a simple affair. However, I was disappointed that it had been substituted for the artillerist’s arts, for, as every thinking man knows, a contest of deadly weapons should make as much noise as possible, in order to satisfy the spectators in the event of a disappointing conclusion. The hay bales make for docile targets. Fetch me some car tires instead. Much more practical, I would think.

Next, the nurses addressed our assembly, and the men were sent out into the gym while they discussed lady parts. After lunch we got our end of the talk. Mr. Lynn sat in on it, and gave advice like “If he’s humping his pillow and he’s dead-ass asleep, wake him up!” from time to time.

We trouped out to Frisbee golf later on in the afternoon. The course is located in an ant-infested corner between the boathouse and archery. No less than 81 frisbees were in the air at any given time, which made for an erratic game that is nothing like the sweet serenity found on the 16th green at Pebble Beach. Julia, the girl with the Italian nose who hands out her opinions like party favors, got smacked in the forehead. Three hours later she was still clutching a washcloth to her head. If only she had gotten hit in the mouth.

Nick gave us his general crash course in getting the parents to park where we want them to, which is a detailed and delicate process. I wish I had remembered to bring a bullhorn, orange vests, those big plastic earmuffs, and the orange batons. On the bright side, after I’m done with this, I should be qualified to park cars at Disney. Or planes.

There was a lot of trash talk at horseshoe golf afterward. Horseshoe golf is one of the favorite attractions for college tailgates, and I affected my best Alphonse Capone accent, in order to appropriately demoralize the enemy. Kevin, Joe and I played against our CITs, and came out in a wash after several intense rounds.

Dispatch 4- Rock 'n Roll Ain't Noise Pollution

Camp, Day 4

Thursday, June 11

Thursday was also a classroom day. Tag deserted Keith and I, so he and I were chatting for a lot of the morning. Keith reminds of ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, the mail clerk with a smart mouth from Catch-22 (Even better, he delivers the mail at dinner). He’s a cocky guy who knows the system, and what he can get away with. Keith comes from Englewood (all Englewood and Miami campers are punks, according to Don), and his Dad was in the 82d Airborne during Desert Storm. (And he wears the dog tags around his neck day and night) During the music section this morning, we compared classic rock bands and songs, because all the music they were playing was too girly.

Proper music etiquette was the topic for discussion in the morning, as I noted. Don came in through the side door while they were playing “Do the Locomotion” and paused at the doorway, like he was unsure if he wanted to come in. Before long, the classroom devolved into a huge debate over which music is the best. Kevin had worn a shirt with Moses clutching a phonograph that day, and the rest of it was pure musical extravaganza. Meanwhile, Keith and I were puzzling over whether “All Along the Watchtower” was appropriate for the children or not. Eventually Krys got tired of it, and we moved on to group scenarios.

Group scenarios began with finding a group. (I covertly tapped the guys on my right and left) Then the sheets of doom were passed out to the assembly. Every group was given a situation, and informed whether we were supposed to act it out positively, or… poorly. We were fortunate enough to have a positive skit, which meant that I got to simply look official with my clipboard and smile for the camera from behind my sunglasses.

Krys and Nick were leading the discussion. The skits were refined zaniness, for the most part. As Tag explains it, “Going to this camp will turn you into a cartoon character.” Crystal should be auditioning for Daffy Duck’s understudy any day now. Ashley played Krys during one skit. On the fly, Krys pressed her trademark sunglasses into Ashley’s surprised hands, but she managed to ham it up in the most hilarious way.

Seeing Krys without her glasses was a rare occurrence. It helps with her “camp face;” you know, the one that says “Back up or I will run you over.” According to the returning staff, watching her go after problem campers is a glorious sight. Her wrath can be terrible (from time to time), but she realizes that being a good employer and leader means that you have to be harsh sometimes. I have not yet seen her truly angry, for as long as you realize your mistake and correct it, she’s fine. Because she expects the best from us, and more importantly helps us become better, it shows that she cares. And that’s how I know I can work for her.

Once the skits were over with, it was time for a tour of the field of battle. Every Friday, the camp erupts into a full-fledged water war. There’s a 200-foor slip n’ slide, water bombardment on the tennis courts (known affectionately as “the grill”), a water war between guys and girls, and snow cones. Like any good commander, I scoped out the field of battle, judging how to best position my troops. I’m confident we can rout the enemy. They certainly are proud of the new slip n’ slide. It was specifically amended, according to Joe, “for maximum slippage and slidage.” I’m not too concerned though. What worries me is the irregular warfare that breaks out from time to time. I’ve been told that the nurses go guerilla style. If they’re seen approaching with rain jackets on, duck. They may have a water balloon for you.

After the tour was over, we were back in the LVP for miscellaneous question and answer time. In other words, we were stalling until dinnertime. Nick unveiled his master schedule, which was a color-coded masterpiece of planning, which everybody had a zillion questions about anyway.

However, later on was the inter-cabins four-way soccer game. I suited up for battle in my rough-and-ready hiking boots, the Apollo Track shirt from the Mississippi trip, a blue bandanna and the Terminator glasses. There were four goals that formed a cross on a large field. A ball was tossed into the middle, and the game was on. There are plenty of trees and shrubs around the edge of the field, but play didn’t stop for anything, unless somebody boosted it over the rusted metal fence on the edge.

The other team was stacked, but we had Nick. The man is a human tornado on the soccer field. I don’t know if you’ve heard of esteemed aquatics director before, but his feigned distaste for campers and counselors alike is legendary. But in the heat of battle, this disguise is dropped for the attitude of a true comrade. He dashed to and fro like a bolt of lightning, slicing through the gaggle of girls who were standing around in the middle of the field. The mere sight of it filled me with such enthusiasm that I barreled across the field and rammed into Monty. We lost 3-1, though I ended with my honor intact.

Following the game we cooled down around a campfire (not my idea), but we toasted s’mores. I was wishing I had brought water. A few guys had guitars, and I had my harmonica. Afterward, we got to go watch the Magic game. Although they lost too, I had a good time teaching Joe, Ruthie, Chad and Bob how to play Farkle. I came out with a win again.

Dispatch 3- A Strange Pinching Feeling.

Camp, Day 3

Wednesday, June 10
Reporting from the ropes course

I’ve had this bloody climber’s harness on for most of the day, and I’ll be damned if I get a rash. Everyone is hot, sweaty, sticky, & smelly, but at least we’re in the shade. We just got kicked off the Odyssey because somebody ahead of our group (Tag, Henry, Dan, and I) discovered a way to break the zipline. The cargo net on the way down kept trying to eat m shoes.

The ropes course is an entire compound, off behind Bldg. 9 and the boy’s cabins. The different stations are the Odyssey, the bouldering hut, the climbing tower, the Alpine tower, the swing, the big zipline, and some other random huts, tossed about for good measure. All activities out at the ropes course require a harness and a helmet. The helmet is pretty straightforward, whereas the harness consists of three loops—one around the waist, two around the legs.

It’s odd, but after spending time in it, I can still feel the phantom pinch of the harness. It’s kinda like still feeling the ocean waves after a day at the beach. For the guys, the leg loops, when under tension, creates the kind of stress that can make a soprano, or even a eunuch out of the best of us. So, we men adjust things to make a “pocket,” the kind of style that went out with Louis the XIV. The girls tried not to stare.

Buck and Balen got sent up the Alpine tower first, while the rest of us waited down below, trying to learn to belay, or in other words, how not to drop the campers off the 50-foot tower. It was smooth sailing on the way up, but they were a bit flighty on the way down. Don, the grizzled ropes chief, yelled for Balen to check his knot and then shimmy on down. “Shouldn’t we have checked that before I got up here?” Balen yelled back. We got everyone down in one piece, more or less.

We were introduced to Don and the rest of the ropes crew after harnessing up. Don (I’m Don. Don’t give me any of this ‘Sir’ bull.”) is a rumpled man, about as wide as he is tall. He has the personality of the kind of bear that is familiar with being woken up from hibernation because of squirrels tap-dancing on his head. He is a compact, tough man, in his mind as well as his physical strength. Any camper or counselor who jokes with him can expect a sharp retort. Ruthie made the mistake of mentioning a plot to hide his remains somewhere on camp. “Just watch where you dig,” was his subtle reply. “You might dig up somebody else on accident.” A man of iron, that is.

After lunch and another layer of sunscreen, we were back on the course. It was time experience the Odyssey. The name does not involve clashing with the Cyclops, annoying Poseidon, or even wooden horses. Instead, the Odyssey is a double-decked high-wire obstacle course. To make sure those brave enough to tackle it don’t fall 30 or 40 feet to the ground, everyone is outfitted with “lobster claws,” metal clamps that clip into the wires above. You begin on the lower track, after climbing that infernal cargo net, with the “hourglass.” It’s for one person: keep your feet on the wire, hands on the rope, and you shimmy your way across.

Next comes “Frankenstein Lines,” where you go in pairs. You have a wire for each foot, and the man in back puts his hands on the shoulders of the point man. Then you clomp you way across like Frankenstein, matching step for step. After that is “The Matrix,” a four-man hopscotch exercise. They say the steps are sturdy, but I have my doubts. The “Complex X” is the last one on the lower track, and is a two-man deal. You have to cross over the ropes where the wires intersect in the middle. I find that, like while belaying, it helps to keep one hand firmly clenched on the line, pushing out. Definitely helps with your balance.

Sasha, John, and Apryl were our jumpmasters, and helped us through most of it, whereas Lindsey and Julia chilled out on the far end, giving us (some) direction. My group went last, with three groups ahead of us, so we were well-motivated to be the fastest and finest group out there. I was forever telling the platform crews that they should just call me Peter Pan, Dr. Indiana Jones, or Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. I had nimble feet.

After a break in the shade, we scaled the opposite side to the t’gallants. Our group was last again, only because the cowardly buggers who went before us played rock, paper scissors without us. Cheap shot.

The tops begin with “lateral limbo,” which is like the Frankenstein lines, only rotated so that the pairs face each other, with arms on the shoulders of the man opposite. They put 2x4s in the way, which is why I call it the “Toothpicks of Doom.” It’s catchy.

The second one is the Team Tension Traverse. There’s a pulley in the middle that has two ropes attached. Everybody grabs a knot and walks across together. We were supposed to do the “Scary Ferry” next, followed by “Multi-Vine,” but it was at that point when we were told to go back. We already had the gondola ready and everything, but they told us to get off. I wasn’t in my Alpine gondolier’s outfit anyway, but I hated having to miss the double zipline at the end.

It was by far one of the most grueling days we’ve had so far. But this was just a dry run. With 30 campers or so in tow, it’ll be an entirely different situation. I may even start to sound like Don after a few weeks. However, I doubt that I’ll be able to perfect that rustic voice of his. In another time or place, you would probably find him hunting squirrels in the backwoods of Old Virginia. For now, he seems content in his work. And so shall I.

Dispatch 2- Down to Business

Camp, Day 2

Tuesday, June 9

A lot of my moments from Tuesday I already marked in passing somewhere in my notes, but I’ll sum up, regardless. Today was a classroom day for the most part, and I continued to collect more names, faces, and friends as the day went along. I had the harmonica with me for mealtimes, which was appreciated, it seems.

Kevin is one of the new faces I get along with. He’s paired with Eddy, in cabin 25. He’s tall, lanky, and often wears shirts that look like American Apparel, kinda like Joe. He and John are also outdoors enthusiasts who like to rock climb. Funny thing—Kevin had just been to Foster Falls recently, right about the same time as me. Easy-going and good natured, I’ll see him again at UF in the fall.

I’ll spend more time on character profiles as we go along. I just don’t have the time for a full dramatis persona right now. Our trackers are pretty fun though. Crystal is a consummate actress who knows how to play a crowd. Even though she’s tiny, she is always bursting with energy. She has an obsession for color-coding her wardrobe, I’m told. Her olive skin makes me suspect she’s Greek. She has a voice that doesn’t match her small size.

Other bits of information about the camp: we raise the flag every morning, take it down in the evening. I’m a fan of that. It’s important to learn respect for your country. The soda machine in the pavilion is “broken,” as far as the campers know. Thus, if you wanna get a drink, madcap trickery and deception ensue to distract the campers while somebody shells quarters faster than at a slot machine. Would make an excellent SportsCenter commercial.

We also learned never to give a homesick kid a cell phone. Two years ago, a camper had a cell phone with them, and gave it to another camper. She then called her father and lied about getting kicked out of camp, and told him that she was walking down the road outside of camp. While dealing with the irate father, Krys and the others had to figure out who had the cell phone, and who done it, and where. Kinda like a game of Clue.

Even funnier is the story of a Jewish girl who came to camp, decided she didn’t like it, and then called her mother to tell say that she was at a Nazi camp, and wanted to go home. Mothers, apparently, believe whatever idiocies their babies tell them, and they had to calm down a screaming mother to assure her they weren’t running a concentration camp in Central Florida. Moral of the story: cell phones are always bad news.

Later we played more games, including a chaotic game of foursquare where there was much bickering over the rules. I gave out my first two nicknames of camp at the game, both of them girls. “Salt” got hers because her shirt was gray, mine was black, and she was annoying me by aiming for me. “Cheerios” got hers for her prickly demeanor and because she looked like a honeybee in yellow and black. That nickname should remind her to cheer up. Now to see if they’ll stick.

Most of all, I enjoy how many great people I’ve met and how much I look forward to working with them. This really is an eccentric ensemble of characters, and I’m sure it will be an entertaining summer. We ended the day by watching the Magic play the Lakers. It was a loud, raucous time, and most of the viewers seemed happy with the Magic win. I went back to the cabin and was soon asleep.

Dispatch 1- Beginnings.

Camp, first morning- Day 2
Tuesday, June 9

This is the first full day at camp. The kitchen staff are already in high spirits, playing “Ring of Fire” as they serve up breakfast for all 90 or so counselors and counselors-in-training (CITs). Today we’re in classroom for the majority of the day. I’m looking forward to catch up on the log while looking like I’m taking notes. A Clever Subterfuge.

The sun shimmered on the dash of the Buick on the drive up yesterday, while I glistened with sweat most of the time in absence of air conditioning. I arrived a little after 3 o’clock, then was told at the check-in table that I’d take a drive through the fields to get to my cabin. Almost got stuck in a retention pond on the way. Parked beside a decrepit putt-putt course that’s been closed ever since kids got whacked in the head with a putter. After stashing my gear, I collected in the main hall with a bunch of UF students. Good company.

After most everybody had arrived, we headed off into the Grafton Gym, right next to the open-air pavilion where most of the meals take place. The rest of the afternoon was spent in icebreakers.

During the icebreakers I met my CIT, Jacob. His camp name though, is T.A.G. (Tall and Goofy). He’s been here for four years, since he was 14. So far any question that I could’ve asked someone else on the staff, I just leaned over and gave it to Tag. He’s an invaluable source of information, and most of my stories from past summers at Camp are partly from him. He’s tall and lean, wears his dirty blond hair cropped short, has spindly glasses and an excitable way of talking- I think we’ll work well together. The campers are always pestering him for his real name, and it seems the guesses are getting wilder with each passing week. We’re also working out the kinks in most of our many bear-wrestling stories. Some of the campers believe us.

During the evening we were addressed by Lynn “Mr. Lynn” Warburton, the director of the camp, and Ms. Krys Ragland, his adjutant, for lack of a better word. They explained a little more of the hierarchy. The trackers are just above the counselors in the chain of command, then the green team (Because of the lime-green shirts they wear). Krys is a part of that. Other camp jargon: “returnees” are returning staff or campers, the “homesickers” often need a shoulder to cry on. I’ll make sure it’s someone other than me.

The Elks, to me, seem a lot like the Shriners, only without the funny little hats. From what I understand of the organization, they do a lot of good in this world. There used to be an old hospital in Umatilla, (closed in ’97) which served polio children for decades. When Mr. Lynn first started here 10 years ago, the camp was facing a lawsuit. He went to a lawyer in Ocala, whose specialties were camps and horses. As it turned out, the man, who was older than dirt, was a former camp counselor. They chatted for hours before they got to the case at hand as he recalled names and faces from his past. I hope to be able to say the same.

Mr. Lynn is an interesting character himself. He’s an elderly chap. His face is sunburned and weather-beaten by the years. The retired locksmith has the slow, drawling voice of a bullfrog, and wears his steely hair swept back like a wave at the crest. He is, without a doubt, a man of intense dedication, and sharp as a tack. Around the 4th of July he putters around camp on a bulldozer, throwing trees, park benches, and port-a-potties (according to Tag) into a heap for the bonfire. It’ll probably scorch the ground from twenty feet away, I’d wager.