September 21, 2015 - 17:17
Over the summers, I volunteer my time as a camp counselor at a state park on the seacoast. Since the summer program is hosted at a center for scientific research, it revolves around discovery as much as it does fun. Having been a camper myself, I have plenty of fond memories of my summers in Rye, New Hampshire, but the most magical thing to happen there occurred when I was counseloring in 2013.
It was a half past noon on a Friday, which meant that Pirate Week at camp was drawing to an end. Every week operated on a chosen theme, this one being pirates, and on the last day, the entirety of the camp gathered for a period of games after lunch. Unfortunately, we weren't having the sunny weather we had hoped for. It was cool and damp, making water-based games far less enjoyable and recess that much more exhausting. Without an arsenal of games to exploit the infinite energy of kids under the age of 10, counselors had to wokr that much harder to keep them entertained. There was always kickball (really, always--I broke my shoulder playing it in a downpour when I was a kid in the same field), but not everyone liked it. There was also "Dead fish," which was employed rarely, to preserve its originality, that was a game of who-can-play-dead-the-best (a brilliant creation that allows camp counselors a 15 minute respite from running around). There were enough varieties of tag that someone could have drawn up a geneological tree of all its iterations. There were trees to climb and rocks to move and bushes to hide in, but on that Friday, there was not enough to keep the campers satisfied. The hour-long stretch of time designated as recess was getting to be overwhelming and frustrating, and I was all out of ideas and patience. And since the weather had soured, it only compounded my discomfort.
But as recess dwindled down to fifteen more minutes, ten more, five--something amazing happened. We began corraling the children, and as they were extracted from the shrubbery and pulled down from skyward tree limbs, the fog rolled out on the water. Grey and glassy, the Atlantic rose up against the barnacled mass of rocks that made up the shore. Frothy waves swelled up, lifting clumps of knotted wrack furth and further up. As visibility increased, more than a dozen masts became visible in the distance. Two more minutes of recess-their sails were now discernable, the canvas and nylon stitched into stripes and crosses rippling in the wind. One more minute-the ships much more clear, lined up in a perfect row behind the irregular clusters of children. "Kids! Turn to starboard!" our camp director yelled.
Recess was over, and sitting on the horizon, against a misty backdrop, was a fleet of ships, right on time for the grand finale to Pirate week. The schooners, clippers, and sloops were assembled for a regatta that afternoon, and it had coincided perfectly with the spirit of the camp. I remember facing the lineup with two tiny kids balanced on each hip, and being instantly returned to my childhood on the seacoast as I looked to the ocean with all the enchantment I had forgetten about.