The Waterfront - Part 1

Seeing the waterfront today, I realize how much work went into maintaining it each year. The lakeweed has grown over the annual layers of sand that we shoveled into the swimming area. Tall grasses have taken over the beach. A few pilings that were once connected by yellow plastic rope and formed the outer barrier that separated the swimming area from the rest of the beach are still standing.

Lake Pebawma is a spring-fed lake with a muck bottom. If you swim down to what seems like solid soil, your hand and arm will disappear into at least a foot of loose dirt, dead leaves, and other rotting vegetation. It swallowed up the cement blocks that anchored the floating raft in the deepest swimming area. It swallowed up any number of personal effects that lifeguards dropped from that same raft. 

Each summer, we practiced the blue water search as part of a missing camper drill. When the waterfront director called the search, several staff members would jump into the deepest swimming area and form a line on one side. Then, we would methodically dive down into the weeds and muck, feeling for a lost child. Thankfully, we never had to put the drill into actual practice while I was at camp, but I still remember the feeling of my hands reaching into the unknown; my chest aching as we repeated the deep dive again and again.

I was told a short-lived motorboat disappeared in the late 70s after some tipsy counselors returned from a night out and rammed into the dock, reversing a short distance before realizing they were taking on water. Another sailboat, too big for the lake and too old for repair, was scuttled by an intrepid squad of counselors-in-training in the early 80s, along with several of the hatchets and saws they used for the job. More than once, a hatchet bounced off the fiberglass hull as they chopped away and fell into the water, the destruction crew never even bothering to dive after them knowing it to be a lost cause. Finally, a combination of holes in the hull and rocks on the deck sank it into the muck below. 

There were also a few stories of the muck releasing its grasp. Perhaps a falling branch loosened the grip of accumulated detritus that gathered beneath the surface, or the spring thaw, a myth to us summer folks who could not imagine Aharah in snow and ice, shifted unseen currents. The most notable story was a birchbark canoe that emerged decades after being dragged down, found by a local townsperson, and reportedly stored in a Michigan history museum. Perhaps the muck bottom will release other secrets in years to come. Some lucky fisherman searching for trout will pull in a nice pair of Risky Business sunglasses or a bottle of vintage sunscreen.

We worked to carve a space out of that muck each summer. One of the tasks of the junior staff was to cover the muck in the Red (shallow) swimming area with sand. We dug it out of a nearby hillside and carted it by wheelbarrow to the dock. Some years, we loaded it on the untethered diving raft and used our reaching poles like gondoliers so we could work from the center to get an even cover. It didn’t have to be too deep, just enough to knock the lakeweed down before it grew too high. The frenzied feet of campers would trample down the rest

One year, our camp director, Jim, thought the way to end the battle with the lakeweed was to cover it with a plastic tarp and cover that with sand. We managed to spread the tarp and work most of the air out from underneath, then covered it with our annual layer, thinking that we could look forward to never doing that job again.

No one considered at the time that the lakeweed beneath the tarp would die and rot. No one predicted the effects of the sun beaming down on both sand and tarp. When each plant decomposed, it released a small amount of gas. As the summer continued, small bulges of pressurized blue tarp emerged from the sand, bubbles that longed to be poked and prodded by camper foot and counselor reaching pole. The small bulges began to gather at the center, an ominous growth in the swimming area. We knew that beneath that blister was a mix of dead plants and methane. Fearing the tarp would finally burst, it was removed, and the dead plants floated away over time. The next year, again, we grabbed our shovewls and covered them with sand.

Covering the lakeweed also discouraged wildlife from hiding in the swimming area. The lake was home to several species of fish. The marshy edges welcomed a chorus of frogs. Most days, you could also find painted turtles sunning themselves on partially submerged fallen branches. These were the shy kind of wildlife that quickly jumped or dove when we sought a peek on silent nature hikes. If a frog or a turtle happened to make its way into the swimming area, it was an event for joyful cries and pointing fingers. Yet another kind of creature evoked a different kind of cry. On the waterfront, we feared the snakes.

They weren’t poisonous. They weren’t dangerous, but they were snakes, stirring the primal fear as only a serpent can. They were brown snakes that sunned themselves along the lakeside in the late afternoon; snakes that swam on the surface, hunting for frogs but scaring young humans. They swam boldly into the swimming area, but their journey quickly became an obstacle course of splashing limbs, running campers, and flinging reaching poles. For some campers, a glimpse of a snake in the water was enough to end a summer swimming career.

Campers came to Aharah with very different abilities and fears. One of my favorite memories of the waterfront was helping a boy named Jacob put his face in the water. Jacob was part of the youngest cabin, seven or eight years old with a strong fear of the water. During swimming lessons, he would sit at the edge of the red area playing in the sand while the other boys who didn’t know how to swim would at least play in the shallow water. I was a counselor-in-training, so my job was not to lead but assist the full counselors. I sat with Jacob, and I asked why he didn’t want to go in the water.

“I don’t want my face to go in the lake water.”

“Like this,” I said and dipped the bottom half of my face in the shallow end, blowing bubbles out of my nose, doing my best hippopotamus impression. One secret to being a good camp counselor is having a supply of random foolishness at the ready. Jacob smiled and nodded. 

“Do you mind getting your hands wet?”

“No,” he said.

“Do you mind getting your feet wet?”

“No," he said.

“Just the face?” I asked.

“Just the face.” 

 A foam ball sat next to us. I picked it up, squeezed it, and let Pebawma water drip down my face.

“Would you touch the ball to your face?” He did.

“Would you squeeze it on your face?” Surprisingly, he did.

“How is the water in the ball different from the water in the lake?” Jacob smiled. He stuck his face in. I kid you not, and I still don’t know exactly why. By the end of the hour, we were just two hippos blowing bubbles through our noses. Sometimes, as a counselor, you got to be the hero or the buffoon, but the best times were moments of helping a child with a small act of personal heroism.