by Tilda Shalof
Camp Carson was every bit as impressive as the video showed, but what it hadn’t conveyed was the exclusive, country club atmosphere. Even with Coach Carson’s warm welcome and private tour, I felt uncomfortably like an outsider. I focused on the beautiful surroundings and learning my way around the vast property.
The camp was built on an oval, sparkling lake. All of the facilities were situated on manicured lawns spread out over sprawling grounds. First, Coach Carson took me to the Lodge, where there was a staff lounge with a TV, video games, an indoor pool, and billiard and ping-pong tables. Next, we made a loop out to the camp’s periphery to see the campers’ cabins. They were modern wood-and-log structures that had been freshly painted in forest-green, maroon, or navy-blue to denote the various units. Inside, the walls, ceiling, and rafters were made of unvarnished, light pine wood. There were eight single cots and four bunk beds, so there was space for sixteen people, usually twelve campers and four counsellors, two of whom were swim or waterski specialists, for example, and only slept in the cabin. Each cabin had its own showers and bathrooms.
We walked back to the centre of camp where the dining hall was located. It was a long, grand rectangular room with several entrances and a balcony that ran right around the outside, offering breathtaking views of Lake Serenity whichever direction you looked. It was decorated in expensive-looking, but rustic, cottage-type décor, with a stuffed moose over the stone fireplace and polished pine floors. All over the walls hung bright plaques and banners from Colour War battles and victories of days gone by, all signed by campers, many of whom were probably parents of children now attending Camp Carson.
Next, Coach Carson took me to meet Trish and Johnny and see the kitchen. It was as scrupulously clean as any operating room I’d ever been in, right down to its chilled ambient temperature, white tiles, and large spotless stainless-steel tables for food preparation. A counter the full length of one wall separated the kitchen from the dining hall. Kitchen staff handed out platters of food, pitchers of “bug juice” – the ubiquitous, flavoured sugar water that was the standard camp beverage – and condiments across the counter. The kitchen workers seemed to be between sixteen and eighteen, around the same age as the counsellors. They lived in trailers at the back of the campgrounds. I wondered how they felt about working and waiting on their city counterparts whose work in comparison looked more like playing and partying.
Coach Carson pointed out the office, a modern, well-equipped log cabin, where he, Wendy, and their staff worked. Just outside of camp, down the road a short distance, was a cabin where the Carsons lived, and another for the camp doctor and his wife. To end our tour, Coach Carson showed me the Playhouse, which had a surround-sound system and plush seats. With great pride he told me about his son, Eric, who was the camp’s head of drama and would be directing the camp play.
“See, I knew when you saw the camp, you’d go wow! So, what do you say?”
What could I say but “wow”?
We had lunch, which we inhaled at a pace that I’d come to know as camp tempo. It was a breakneck gobble of submarines-tomato-soup-Rice-Krispie-squares. Afterward, Coach Carson went up to the podium and welcomed both returning and new campers to Camp Carson, now in its thirty-fourth year. At that first lunch, I was introduced to Dr. Don Kitchen, whom everyone called “Kitch,” and his wife, Marg. Kitch was a general practitioner who took his summer vacation at camp. He called it a working holiday. He’d been the camp doctor for years and knew all the kids. He and Marg had three kids who had grown up at the camp and were now counsellors. Kitch told me that every morning after breakfast, he would hold a clinic. After that, Caitlin, a newly graduated nurse in her early twenties, and I were to be available to the campers and staff at all times. We could consult with him over the phone if we had any questions. He was only a few minutes away and promised to come for emergencies. After lunch, Kitch got up and gave a stern lecture to everyone about the dangers of the sun. His words carried a lot more weight than mine ever had, but probably the scary mention of premature aging and deadly skin cancers made them listen up.
The Medical Centre was a centrally located, cozy wood cabin nestled in a grove of pine trees. There was a large, comfortable waiting room, plus a well-equipped doctor’s office, two examining rooms, and one room with six beds for girls across from another room with six beds for boys. There was also a small isolation room that had one bed in the case of a patient with an infectious disease. At the back were two small bedrooms, one for me and one for Caitlin, who had worked at the camp the year before when she was still a student nurse. After dinner that first night, Caitlin and I got to work setting up and organizing the supplies and medications. I pointed out to Wendy that some of the meds left over from the previous summer were now past their expiry date.
“Pack them up,” she said, “and we’ll send them off to some Third World country along with any outdated equipment. They’re grateful for whatever they can get.”
Caitlin lowered her voice. “The Tiger Lady is tough. She runs a tight ship with supplies and stuff and freaks out if something goes missing. She’s always worried a parent might sue them for something. But she’s such an old-fashioned nurse when it comes to treating the children. It’s basically, suck it up. Like, a kid’s arm could be falling right off and she’ll say, ‘go, have a drink of water,’ or something, and it makes them laugh their heads off and forget about whatever was bothering them.”
I laughed, too. Once a nurse, always a nurse.
The days started off with pleasant wake-up music. It was usually a selection from a mainstream repertoire, like the Barenaked Ladies, the Steve Miller Band, or the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Breakfast was at 8:00 a.m., during which Caitlin and I were on pill call duty for campers on meds. When we arrived at the dining hall, they would come at us in a mad rush. Caitlin usually stayed on “crowd control” while I gave out pills from a big picnic basket. I had to laugh as I imagined myself skipping in like Little Red Riding Hood with that straw basket over my arm!
Caitlin and I did our best to get to everyone at breakfast, or else we’d have to go hiking all around camp to track down kids who had missed their pills. If a pill accidentally dropped, the kids were quick to remind me of the five-second rule, the interval in which a dropped pill was still okay to take. (Funny, that was never covered in my pharmacology course!) After receiving their meds, the kids returned to their seats and slouched back down on the benches, beside their cabin mates, comfy in their baggy flannel plaid pants, faces hidden deep inside cozy hoodies, their feet in thick, grey woolly socks shoved into Birkenstocks.
The roar in the dining hall at meals was deafening. Conversation was impossible so I worked at reading lips and deciphering the sign language of “Please pass the Cheerios” or “More bug juice?” The food was delicious and plentiful.
After each meal, there were amusing skits and announcements about things like the swim marathon or tryouts for the camp play. Since that first week of camp fell over both July 1, Canada Day, and July 4, Independence Day in the United States, there were moments of patriotism, too. While the majority of campers were Canadian, there were some Americans. (There were few differences between the kids except the Americans referred to the tuck shop as the “canteen” and they liked to imitate the Canadians use of “eh.”) On July 1, the camp dutifully sang “O Canada.” But a few days later we listened to the much more enthusiastic belting out of “The Star-Spangled Banner” by the handful of Yankee campers and staff, who waved their flag and held their hands over their hearts as they sang. Our much more subdued show of national pride made me wonder if a lack of patriotism was one thing Canada was known for.
There was a definite hierarchy at this camp and you saw it clearly in the dining hall seating. The camp directors, the doctor, his wife, and their friends sat at a head table, presiding over the crowd, like at a wedding. The unit heads, who were in charge of the various age groupings, had their own tables, and the various heads of specialties such as pottery, art and
crafts (a and c), or sail, sat at other tables. Counsellors sat with their campers, which was necessary so they could keep an eye on their kids and also rise up as a group when called upon, to chant in unison their own cabin’s cheer. Caitlin and I sat wherever we could squeeze in. I was usually at the overflow table of swim staff, and she would angle for a spot at the trippers’ table.
After an embarrassing gaffe when I mistook a camper for a counsellor and another when I mistook a counsellor for a camper, I made a concerted effort to get to know the names of the counsellors and where they sat. Soon, I also knew where each specialty was located. At the table of dance and drama instructors – known as “Divas and Drama Queens” – there were entertaining scenes featuring hysterical laughter or uncontrollable weeping over various comedies or tragedies, inevitably ending with someone getting up and stomping away. They would cry at a moment’s notice and burst into song at another. They were super careful about what they ate and never took seconds. It was known that anyone scrounging for extra desserts could help themselves freely at that table.
The long table near the outside wall, right beside the balcony overlooking Lake Serenity, was where the group of trippers, most of them male, seated themselves. They would be taking the children out on hikes and four-or five-day canoe trips in the wilderness of Algonquin Park. With their scruffy beards and wearing do-rags, tight muscle shirts, and hiking boots that seemed suited to scaling Mount Kilimanjaro, they got up frequently during meals to swagger about like conquering Vikings, stretch their legs, strut along the balcony and hork spitballs over the edge onto the lawn. They were buff and stunning specimens of young male beauty. Ah, the macho glory of the trippers! They had big reputations to maintain and glorious traditions to uphold. In the camp pantheon, the trippers were at the pinnacle. But their reputations, both on and off duty, were well-earned, or so they claimed.
“We work hard, but when we’re off, we’re off,” Jordan, the head tripper, told me.
“They’re pretty hard-core party animals,” Caitlin said when she saw me gazing at them. “Enjoy the eye candy while it lasts,” Caitlin advised. “They are only at camp in between trips. That’s when they get to lounge around and take up a lot of space being beautiful – which they do so very well, don’t they?”
“Not too hard on the eyes,” I said, trying not to let my admiration of the trippers’ good looks be too obvious.
After lunch on the first full day of camp, Caitlin and I went from cabin to cabin, checking each camper for lice. It was the standard, first-day practice, Caitlin said. We worked steadily all afternoon and managed to get to all eight hundred heads, thanks to assistance from a fastidious counsellor from the Constellation cabin who was known as a champion nit-picker. “My whole family had lice. I know what to look for. They call me Miami, as in Miami Lice.” But as it turned out, I was the one who discovered the only cases – two sisters – and felt oddly triumphant at this weird accomplishment. Camp policy dictated that they would have to be sent home and allowed back only after being treated and deemed “clear.” Treating them at camp would be too time-consuming and tedious (after a few minutes of that work you have a new understanding of the phrase “nit-picking”) and the risk of spread to other campers was great. Kitch explained the sensitive matter to the crushed parents on the phone.
That day, the whole camp was abuzz with excitement and jitters about the swim test that everyone had to undergo before being allowed to participate in any water sports. I had been surprised when I learned that Camp Carson had an indoor pool, situated as it was on such a beautiful, calm lake, but Coach Carson explained that it was for rainy days and those kids who couldn’t get used to the weeds, the rocks, and the cool water. The Carsons had, it seemed, anticipated every possible risk of a risk and prepared for it.
For safety’s sake, the Carsons also had many rules that were exactingly enforced. First, all campers had to undergo swim testing. Each child had to jump into the lake fully dressed, crawl into a canoe, tip it, swim a few lengths, and then tread water while a member of the swim staff observed and made notes about his or her swimming form. It seemed like everyone at camp, even the strong and confident swimmers and those who took private swimming lessons all year round, was nervous and on edge until they received the coveted green bracelet signifying they could participate in all waterfront activities. (They even made me take the swim test. I passed – phew!) The embarrassing yellow bracelet meant the swimmer had a conditional pass, and the red bracelets “were for losers,” as one kid told me. The head of the swim staff explained to me that the red bracelet was to alert them to the kids who needed closer supervision around and in the water. That made perfect sense and it was quite a change from the non-competitive “everyone’s a winner” attitude at Camp Na-Gee-La. Yet, recognition only for the star performers didn’t seem right, either. How to strike a balance?
The next day was still slow in the mc so I went down to the waterfront to watch the proceedings. I’ve always loved being near the water but, truth be told, I was also hoping to sneak a peek at my own kids to see how they were doing on the swim test. Max had already passed it and was playing with his friends on the beach. Harry was in the midst of it. The lake was warm and now, at the age of nine, he knew that its warm currents came from the sun, not an underwater heating system.
When the swim instructors saw me near my kids, they shooed me away, so I went over to watch other kids. Most were jumping in gleefully. The few who weren’t used to swimming in cold lakes were slower to jump in, but soon they too were happily splashing about. My attention was quickly drawn to Wayne, a boy I recognized from Max’s cabin.
“First, I have to get psyched,” I heard him saying to his swim instructor, nicknamed Cargo (her name was Carla Gordon), who was coaxing him into the water. Wayne had a high-pitched, squeaky voice. He wore glasses and had hair that was stiff and straight-up, as if he was perpetually shocked. His skinny chest showed his ribs with each breath.
“Now, Wayne, we’re not going to go through this again this summer, are we? Your mom said you had lots of swimming lessons,” Cargo told him. “Go for it! Jump in.” Her clipboard at her waist, she was poised to tick off his swimming skills as soon as he demonstrated them to her. He was just about to jump in, then hesitated.
“Are there sharks?” His voice was higher and squeakier. “What about leeches?”
“Wayne! I’m waiting …” She took his glasses from him. “You’re going in!”
Again, he made moves as if he would take the plunge, then stopped himself. “I know how to swim,” he said, “just not in the deep end.” He squinted out at the lake. “Which is the deep end?”
“You’re stalling, Wayne!” Cargo said, her clipboard at the ready.
He stared down into the water. “It’s dark in there.” He looked out across the lake under a flattened hand at his brow. “Is this lake polluted? Last year, something slimy swam between my legs. Are there fish in this lake?”
“Probably, but they’re harmless,” Cargo answered. She tapped her foot.
“Are they endangered fish?”
“Wayne, I can’t wait any longer. Just jump in. Let’s see what you can do.”
He stood there, thinking. “What about goldfish? Are goldfish endangered?”
“Come on!” She was getting exasperated. “The water’s warm today!”
An older boy yelled out, “Hey, Waynester, watch out for the snapping turtles! They’ll bite off your toes!”
“Turtles?” he gulped.
“Do a cannonball! Go for it!” someone else called out.
“Wayne, we’ve wasted so much time! Swim period is over!” Cargo shouted. She blew the whistle, signalling the campers to get out of the water. Wayne’s ordeal was over, at least for now.
“You made it past them today,” I said to him sympathetically as I wrapped his sun-warmed towel around his dry, shivering body, “but how are you going to get out of it tomorrow?” He gave a weak grin and ambled off to find his cabin.
“That’s Samantha. She’s weird this summer. She was here last year. She’s actually a decent swimmer, but she says she’s got her period.”
I returned to the beach the next day after morning clinic, to see how these situations were going to pan out. I must have looked concerned because the head of the swim staff came over to talk to me again.
“It’s all about safety,” he said. “Kids have to learn how to swim. They have to get into the water. It has to be this way.”
“It seems harsh with kids who are afraid. Kids have been coming to me, begging for swim excuse notes.”
“We can’t mess around. Everyone has to swim and we need to know who’s safe in the water and who’s not.”
Fair enough, I agreed, but did they have to use such commando tactics?
Again, today, Samantha was under the tree, huddled there, clutching her knees, looking out at the lake. It was another hot, sunny day and she still wore heavy clothes. Her long sleeves were pulled down over her hands, almost to her fingertips, as if she was cold. From her sad, resolute expression, swimming seemed like the last thing she was prepared to do. I wondered how this strong-arm approach was going to work on her.
By the third day, Wayne still hadn’t gotten into the water.
“You’re going to rock that swim test today, buddy,” Cargo said with a playful punch on his shoulder.
That day he was wearing his prescription goggles, so maybe his improved eyesight would give him the confidence he needed. He wrapped his arms around himself, then made a few diving poses as if he might really go through with it.
“Okay, Wayne,” Cargo said briskly. “I talked to your mom and she says you have to go in. She says she spent lots of money on your swim lessons and she knows you can do it. We can’t fool around with this any more. You’re going in, buddy.”