Ah summer. Remember when you got out of school and came home to a scowling parent who demanded to know what you were going to do for the summer?

No? That never happened to you?

I got shipped off to a summer camp from age 8 to a remote place called Gryphon Grippen Lake Camp. While the camp is long gone and no mention of it exists online, I can fiercely remember the “main street” that went from waterfront to the open field where 5-6 cabins ringed the perimeter. The Main Street housed the crafts cabin, the spider den (the washrooms, ugh), the food hall, the older camper’s cabins and the Counselors. For the life of me I can’t say why they were called “counselors”. Like it was therapy camp or something…

…maybe…

Never mind.

Anyway, the camp had some bizarre rituals: chants before dinner, hand gestures to identify which cabin you occupied and the prayers – we would pray to a sun god in the morning and at the end of the day we were asked to thank a forest spirit for not attacking the camp. Seriously, we did. This was performed right after dinner with all of us in a circle around the nightly campfire, chanting like some cult, bellowing our gratitude into the trees. The younger kids (read: the ones shitting themselves every night after this gruesome ritual was performed. Read again: me) would drill the counselors for more concrete facts regarding this spirit: did it come in the night? Was anyone attacked? Did it have big talons?

I look back now and realize it was a disciplinary ploy to keep us in our cabins after lights out. Of course the older kids weren’t fooled and would pretend to be the wood spirit and bang on our cabin walls in an attempt to make us wet our beds. Some nights they were successful. Thankfully I grew a strong bladder.

They taught us swimming during the day in a carefully cordoned off “beach” area that had colour coded buoys to mark off where more accomplished swimmers could go. After an initial test of skill, you were given a blue, red or white poker chip that stayed around your neck when you entered the water. I never made it past Blue – the kiddie pool, really. I struggled daily to learn to swim but I never could (even to this day) coordinate my kicking with my flailing arms. My lack of skill however, allowed me to stay with the best looking counselor who oversaw the Blue zone. He was my hero. He was a god. He didn’t mind me tagging along like a fart in a grocery store. I think I wasn’t trying too hard to leave the Blue zone because Red was patrolled by a Rubenesque blond girl who was clearly more interested in the Blue area(s) as well. Cow. During horseplay in the shallow end, I experienced my first gleaning of homosexuality too: an innocent game of tackle resulted in Blue boy’s bulgy speedo pressing up against the small of my back. What the what?!

There were other sexualized moments like this throughout the summer. Glimpses of teen horniness telegraphed between the counselors (hetero-based, of course) that fascinated me to watch. Snatches of conversation between the male guides about after-hour connections behind the food hall, in the craft hut, in the white swim zone. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, I just knew that it was a club I wasn’t part of.

Near the end of the summer we had to complete a scavenger hunt with compass and crude map that lead us into the forest. After weeks of the forest spirit story we were a bit desensitized and only slightly nervous. I remember setting off with my companion, who did the map reading while I held the compass. We got 9 out of 10 points correctly and returned to the camp to discover everyone sitting “injun’ style” in the field. Two counselors had gone missing and we were asked to stay put for a head count. The urgency of the situation went on right up to dinner. After dinner we congregated around the communal fire pit and were lead into night prayers for the spirit to return the two counselors.

You can guess where this is going. Soon noises were heard off beyond the light of the campfire.

To a 8 year old kid, this was horror brought to life. If you’ve ever seen a National Geographic video of a frightened deer pack then you have a good idea of how big the campers eyes were: bulging orbs that tried to pierce the darkness just past the fire as their heads whipped around to each new sound. In hindsight, I don’t think the counselors thought this prank through, entirely. The counselors around the fire kept up the faux surprise to the noises and feigned worry as to what the disturbance could be.

One counselor stood and yelled into the forest: “SPIRIT! RETURN US OUR FRIENDS!!”

Crashing from the brush came a guy dressed in strips of trash bags and rags, his head covered in feathers and grease paint. “FRAAAAAAGGGGHH!!!” he shouted.

The young ones started to scream. Imagine 20-25 little Jamie Lee Curtises, open mouthed and howling at this vision. They (we) shot off into the opposite direction towards the cabins. The fear spread like wildfire into the older kids who were cool but not cool at the same time, resulting in some of them running blindly, trampling slower kids, some of them seeing through the rouse immediately.

After all the kids who had run into the forest had been collected and accounted for, we were told that maybe not telling our parents about the last night’s “show” wasn’t a good idea.

I went back a few times over the years and it was pretty much the same – I never learned to swim; I followed my favorite counselor like a baby duck; I would continue to excel in crap crafts. The only exception was there were no more wood spirits.

Update: Yes Cas, you are correct. Funny how time can bastardize ones memory…