The Waterfront - Part 2

The Waterfront – Part 2

             I was eight years old and could not row a boat. I had seen many campers rowing many boats in that first week of summer camp. Push the oars forward; dip them down; pull back through the water; repeat. It was simple, so simple that just a few minutes earlier I had sat in the rowing seat while a counselor named John untied the boat and pushed me away from the dock. The easy rhythm had pulled me away a bit awkwardly at first as I got used to the balance. Soon I was in the middle of Lake Pebwama. I spent the waterfront time doing a slow tour around the lake.

But the waterfront director had blown the whistle, signaling the boats to return. I rowed toward the dock. When I was about 25 yards out, John yelled, “Okay, turn it around so I can tie it up.” Turn it around? I was flummoxed. I knew how to go forward. I had the concept but little experience in going in reverse. How do you turn the rowboat around?

I could feel my face turn red as I tried to solve this puzzle. “Just turn it around.” 

“I don’t know how!” 

“Then why are you in the boat.”

“You let me!”

“Row one oar forward and the other backward.” Nope, the coordination escaped me.

“Just row with one oar!” The single-arm pull that I had when I was eight was not strong enough to make a difference. It felt like I was batting at the water, at best causing the boat to shimmy back and forth. I could feel tears starting to well up, tears of frustration and embarrassment. People were beginning to notice this kid who couldn't handle a rowboat, the lowest level of boating. Even the kids who could only swim in the shallow area were allowed to do the rowboats.

“It won’t work!” I shouted in frustration at that damn fool counselor who let this damn fool kid take off in this damn foolish contraption.

Finally, I rowed it close enough that John could grab hold, turn it around, and tie it to the dock. “You’ll figure it out. Try again tomorrow,” John said as I walked away quickly. I would not touch a boat again that week.

With such a questionable start, who would predict that, within a few years, I would be the responsible counselor in the rowboat, rescuing swamped canoes and tipped Sunfish sailboats? I would be the calm voice who talked weepy eight-year-olds back into their boats after they flipped them in the lake or got stuck on branches by the shore.

Boat duty was one of my least favorite tasks. Spending an hour in an aluminum rowboat on a hot day is tiring. I once spent the afternoon in the health cabin after suffering a light case of heat stroke from a warm waterfront hour. I came off the lake feeling light-headed, and Knuckles, the waterfront director, saw me and said, “Indy, you don’t look very good.” I was prescribed water and bed rest in the health cabin. I don’t remember much of the afternoon except that, at one point, I was loudly singing camp songs to myself.

Boat duty was also lonely. The rest of the staff would be guarding the swim area. I was out in the middle of the lake with a pair of binoculars, yelling at kids to sit in their boats or stop rocking them. Every fifteen minutes or so, I would shout out the tally of various watercraft on the lake during the buddy checks. “I have two kayaks, five canoes, and three rowboats!” Now and then, I would yell something to the staff, but mostly we communicated by hand signal and whistle. However, there was a Swedish exchange counselor who communicated to me by moon. There I was, checking out the shoreline with my binoculars, and there he was on the dock waving to me whilst exposing his Swedish buns (Svenska bullar?). To be fair, the two of us had a mooning competition throughout that summer, so I should not have been surprised. This mooning was just a bit more risky than usual, with potential exposure to staff and camper. 

My favorite duties were the buddy board and the blue area diving raft. The raft was great on a hot day because it involved swimming out and back. The blue area swimmers were also the most competent, so there was little to do but keep a running headcount and count the pairs during buddy checks. The raft was a wooden platform that rested on several empty 50-gallon drums, secured by yellow plastic ropes attached to cinder blocks resting in the muck below. It was a much more comfortable place to stand for an hour than the aluminum docks heated in the sun. 

I liked the buddy board because you were standing on the sand and mostly had to pay attention during the beginning and end of waterfron sessions. It was your job to check people into the swimming area. Every person at camp had a swim area tag, color-coded by swimming ability: red, green, or blue. Red area swimmers could use rowboats. Green area swimmers could use canoes or rowboats. Blue area swimmers could use any watercraft. Pairs of campers would come down, tell you their cabin and names, and you would move their tags to show they were officially in the swimming area. 

Everyone had to have a buddy. You could add a single camper to make a triple, but pairs were ideal. Buddies were responsible to each other, ensuring that their partners were safe. Staff were responsible for their swim areas, ensuring that all swimmers were accounted for. And, at the buddy check, the buddy board attendant was responsible for shouting “Check!,” when the swimmer count was announced by the lifeguards.

This process was all part of the standard operating procedures at the camp. During staff training, we spent the most time preparing for what would happen at the waterfront. We were trained in basic water safety and life-guarding, drilled in how to respond to a missing camper, and told stories of preventable tragedies that happened elsewhere. 

Lake Pebwama was a true gift for Camp Aharah. It shaped much of our life together, but it was the staff’s job to keep it safe for the experienced swimmers and the struggling eight-year-olds in rowboats.

Next time, I will share some memories of the less common waterfront events. Strap on your Aqua-jock!