Camp Whipoorwill

My first camp was Whipoorwill, a Girl Scout camp on the Magothy River in Maryland. I was young enough that when the daily penny postcard from my mother didn't arrive, I was silently, grievingly, sure that she had died. We lived in tents, with a floor of slatted wood. One of the cruelly felt games for naive newcomers was 52 Pickup, which consisted simply of taking a precious pack of cards and tossing it on the floor. We must have played other card games, like Go Fish, or War, but 52 Pickup remains a hollowness in my stomach. During my first year, I learned to swim, and graduated from red cap to yellow cap, and was able to swim in water deep enough to require real swimming. The second year, as my mother drove me from Center Conway, New Hampshire, to Maryland, for camp, my mind was filled all the way with the absolute knowledge that I'd forgotten how to swim, and that I'd be sent back to red cap. New Hampshire was were I'd always spent my summers, and Girl Scout camp was an exciting, but worrying prospect. 

I was a child of silent worry. In kindergarten, Miss Hoyt had a worry bird, made out of a pine cone and painted clothes pins, that we could talk to. Miss Hoyt understood about silent worries. If I could be persuaded to come out from behind the easel that held in private wonderful jars of tempera, I would gravitate to the worry bird. My pictures were always painted to the very edges of the paper.

Of course, I remembered how to swim, and my worries were abated by being a returning camper. I felt more reliance on my friends. I was proud when, at the end of the first day, the counselor said, "It's time to clean the lanterns. Now, whose names do I know? Sunny and Gail!" With a swagger, we made those kerosene lamp chimneys shine. Another year, Sunny and I became fascinated by the experience of the three-legged race, and came to the flag ceremony still tied together. Our counselors were not amused, and I learned years later that there had been a Phone Call Home to Discuss Behavior. 

The counselors were magically attractive, with all the mystery that teen-agers carry. They read us Nancy Drew; they carried tampons in their shirt pockets. They were our friends, but not too much.  

I spent two weeks there for a few summers, and the last summer, when I was a white cap, the highest rank of swimmer, I learned canoeing. Our test for the canoe badge included capsizing the canoe, then righting it and riding the water-filled canoe back to land. A thunderstorm was threatening, and we paddled vigorously as our counselors signaled wildly from shore.