Tales From Summer Camp: 705

I have been asked many times, “What’s your earliest memory of the unexplainable?” While I have an answer at the ready, I don’t think this is the right question. Childhood memories are sometimes corrupt—over the years details become foggier and your memories open to susceptibility. But regardless of their truth, I’ve viewed these experiences as a prologue to the introduction that was to come. Because the question people should be asking is, “At what moment did everything change?”

Week 7, 2005 affected my life in ways that no other time period ever has. It was the end of my third year working for a small summer camp in Ohio, and for months I had planned to request the oldest boys’ cabin to finish out the season. I was already exhausted from working without respite, and knew that dealing with nine 15- to 16-year-olds would be daunting—but I didn’t care. I wanted that last week to be unforgettable. I didn’t expect it to be hauntingly so. 

At that time it was a privilege to counsel the oldest campers, and I remember waiting impatiently to see Week 7’s assignment posted. When it finally was, I learned that not only had my request been granted, but that one of my closest friends, Megeen, would be heading the oldest girls’ cabin! This was incredible news as both groups would be spending time with the other—either through our willingness or inattentiveness. 

Try as I might, I cannot remember the boys’ arrival. I can’t recall their first night, or the second. There are sporadic moments that will spark recollections, like how we wore fake mustaches during our opening campfire skit, or how I set up a Quidditch game for the kids to play in Lower Ballfield. Besides that, it was textbook Camp activities. 

I do remember the storm on Tuesday night. The oldest boys’ cabin is tucked away in the woods; the only lights on the path being white Christmas ones I had strung to prevent them from tripping over exposed roots on their way to the bathhouse. The forceful lightning of that evening made them redundant. It also erased the need for the boys to walk to the bathhouse—standing under the dry eaves of the cabin sufficed.

On our way to breakfast Wednesday morning was when I took note of the storm’s aftermath. Downed branches littered the road, as piles of children’s clothing and shoes lay soaked and discarded; there were even a few milk crates full of the (now) remnants of Camp songbooks that had been left outside—evidence of a storm that wasn’t forecasted. Its destruction culminated in a nice coil of gray smoke rising above the treetops on top of the mountain. All of this made me grateful that I had scheduled our overnighter for Wednesday evening instead of Tuesday (as I had initially planned).

I hated overnighters. Hauling your bedding to another area of the grounds to sleep on the hard earth, while your evening is spent fighting off bugs is an inconvenience. Yet I had the oldest boys! I couldn’t get away with a few s’mores and a couple of stories. These kids had camped for years; for a few, they wouldn’t be able to return the next summer as they’d be too old. I guess, then, that’s why we decided to camp on top of the mountain, in the ruins of an old cabin. 

That cabin truly is the heart of Camp. Ask any kid what their favorite place is and they’ll point upwards. All that currently remains of the structure is the fireplace and old stone pillars that marked the railings of the front porch. When told where they’d be going, my boys excitedly packed—when our night program ended, all we would have to do is grab our items and trek to the cabin.

I wasn’t thrilled to hear that Megeen and her girls would also be camping on top of the mountain. They’d be much farther away from us, about a 30 minute walk to an area that housed one of our state’s natural bridge formations. But on an evening when relationships are either formed or destroyed (the night program was of course the dance), I was a little uneasy about their proximity. I trusted my kids. I didn’t trust their hormones. 

They would have been devastated if I’d cancelled, so I decided to be extra vigilant and make sure no one crept off in the middle of the night—especially being so close to the edge of the cliffs. Safety was paramount.

Back in ’05 I didn’t have a cellphone; not many on Staff did. Instead, our bosses combated this problem with walkie talkies. If anything were to happen while away from Camp proper, we’d be able to contact the Lodge—naturally Megeen and I were both given our own. 

Following a sweat-drenched evening spent partying to amazing 80’s music (which was chosen by the Staff), we hiked ever upwards to the overnight location.

One of my campers, Jake, put it best that evening, saying, “The lightning bugs are speaking in braille.” Truly Mother Nature put on a show, and we delighted in the majesty that surrounded us. Even I, closing my eyes long after everyone else, underneath shooting stars, listening to the calls of the Great Horned Owl, and watching the embers fade from our fire, forgot about the inconvenience of being far away from my bed. I felt safe and secure. 

It wouldn’t last long.

I don’t remember the first time I had a lucid dream, but that Wednesday was different. I was cognizant of the fact that I was dreaming, but unlike past experiences, I couldn’t control the happenings. 

On that night, so many years ago, I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I heard nothing. And I was completely aware of this the entire time. 

Wherever I was, it was dark; so very, very dark. Not the darkness that exists when you close your eyes; not the darkness that exists on a moonless night—nothingness knows no shade or color. In that moment, it was and it wasn’t; I was and I wasn’t—both at the same time.

Slowly my senses began to awaken. 

It was immeasurably cold. The sudden actuality of temperature pierced my body as my nerve endings flared to life. 

And I was falling. 

I tried to scream, but the deafness was absolute.

I was alone. I was confused. I couldn’t breathe.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die. Falling through nothingness, without being able to see or to hear, the only comfort I had were my memories. In this sense, I guess that statement is true.

I thought of my mom. I thought of my grandmothers. But then the images in my mind’s eye appeared so quickly I couldn’t keep track. It was my experiences in high school; it was fighting with my friends; it was my dad leaving—memories that gave zero comfort and which I had purposefully buried. Memories I wasn’t willingly thinking of.

And then Camp.

One last picture of Camp.

The images stopped; I knew I was near the end. My throat was hoarse from the screaming I had attempted during this descent, and I was beginning to faintly hear the wind whirling past my body. 

“Wake up,” I told myself, pleading for this dream to stop before its sickening completion. “Wake up! JONATHAN, WAKE UP!” 

I opened my eyes to see lightning streak across the sky; the thunder retaliated strongly, shaking the earth beneath my sleeping bag. 

For a moment, confusion lingered. Groggily I pushed myself into a sitting position and scoped out my surroundings. Through the intense bursts I was able to glimpse the outline of the fireplace, drawing me back to the reality of our overnighter. Instinctively I looked to my campers and was able to decipher their silhouettes, each standing next to the area where they had bunked for the night. 

“What’re you doing?” I yelled above the thunder, rising out of my bed as well. My question was answered with silence. I walked to the nearest boy, Brennan, and called his name. He stared blankly away from me as if I wasn’t there. Only when I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke his name a second time did he turn to face me. 

“Jonathan?” he asked, dazedly wiping his face and shaking the fog from his head. I realized he had been sleeping. I turned to the others who had remained as still as he. When the thunder detonated again, the remaining boys all began to walk in different directions.

I looked briefly to Brennan as he sank to the ground, hoping this was some elaborate prank they were playing. But I didn’t have time to process anything further—the boys were walking dangerously close to the edge of the cliffs, without showing signs they intended to stop.

I started to run in their direction, hopping over pillows and backpacks. One by one I yanked them back towards safety. Their disorientation was immense upon waking, and instead of rushing to the aid of the others, they simply collapsed, terrified. 

In my head I was frantically counting each kid as I ran. “Eight,” I panted. I’m only counting eight! Where’s William?” 

A few feet from the edge was where he monotonously walked. 

“Will!” I hollered, sprinting towards the last of my sleepwalking campers. In my haste I tripped, fell, rolled, and sliced my forehead on a rock—at least that’s what I assumed. I didn’t feel the pain or blood until later. Lunging back to my feet I plowed into his side, knocking him away from the blackened pit waiting below.

I twisted out of our momentary entanglement to check that he was all right. “Jonathan?” he asked perplexedly. This time I ignored him and returned my attention to the eight others who were now stirring and trying to stand. I brushed away the warm wetness that was dripping off my forehead and walked to where Michael was—the only camper who seemed coherent. 

“What’s happening?” he asked, looking to the others for an answer. 

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “What were you guys doing?”

“You tell us,” Jake said. “You’re the one who woke everyone up.”

“You were sleepwalking,” I retorted, “all of you.”

“I don’t sleepwalk,” he replied. 

I was dumfounded. “But…You just…I just…” I stumbled over my words, trying to convince them of what had taken place. “Don’t you remember anything?” I begged. “…Anything at all?”

“I don’t even remember dreaming,” Will said, addressing the group. “I just remember Jonathan pulling me away from the edge.”

The boys looked to him, and then apologetically to me. “You were all sleepwalking,” I said, softly. “I had to wake you up.”

The thunder again shook our still mountaintop. It began to rain. 

“We’ll discuss this when we get back to the cabin. Everyone grab your things; let’s get out of here before it storms…”

Jake interjected, “You said it wasn’t going to rain.” 

“Apparently I was wrong…and so was the weatherman,” I grumbled trying to repack my bag. “If I had a job where I was only right 50% of the time, I’d be fired…”

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and quickly helped the rest gather their belongings. As we turned to leave, my walkie talkie loudly crackled to life.

Everyone stopped moving.

“Help us,” came the emotionless plea from the other end. 

“Jonathan, that’s Casey!” Michael cried, moving closer to me. Casey was his twin sister who was camping in Megeen’s cabin.

“Casey,” I responded. “Casey, it’s Jonathan. Are you OK?”

“Jonathan? Jonathan? Jonathan? Help us.”

“Casey, let me talk to Megeen.” 

Silence. 

“Casey?” 

I tried a different approach. “Is there anyone awake in the Lodge?” I asked. “Anyone at all? Hello?” more silence still.

“We have to go to Natural Bridge,” Michael said, “We have to make sure they’re ok.”

I thought for a second. “Listen, you all have your flashlights. Climb back down and wait for me at the cabin…”

“I’m coming with you,” Michael interrupted. “That’s my sister!”

I could see there wasn’t any use to arguing with him. “Will, how about you come along as well?” This move was strategic. Will ran track; if there was something truly wrong and I still couldn’t contact the Lodge, I would send him ahead first.

“Sure,” he answered, handing over his bag to another kid.

“I trust you boys,” I said to them. “Go directly back to the cabin. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” they responded.

I watched as they trudged away down the path until my vision became obscured by the rain falling more forcibly. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” I said, leading Will and Michael in the opposite direction. I took maybe five steps before I saw something that to this day I still can’t explain: Through the thick storm clouds festered above our heads shone a light—the best description I can give is that the light was both blue and yellow without ever being green. I apologize; those are the only words I know capable of describing this.

Will and Michael stopped. With mouths agape, they stared at me. A beam of that light trickled through the treetops, over the ruins of the cabin, to rest directly upon me. I raised my left arm to shield my eyes, but the intensity of this light was not to be eclipsed. During those seconds I forgot about the rain drenching my clothes, I forgot about Casey and the girls, I forgot that I was at Camp. 

Just as suddenly as it appeared, the light was gone. I blinked rapidly but my night vision wasn’t affected. Lowering my arm, I noticed movement on my wrist—I can’t say that the hands of my watch were spinning uncontrollably, for they seemed to be moving in a pattern (albeit one I didn’t understand). The hands moved, stopped, and moved again; always pausing at the same times: ten twenty-seven, eleven o’clock, twelve, four thirty-one…

The walkie talkie crackled again; all we heard was static but it was enough to remind us of our task. We glanced at each other but didn’t know how to address what we had seen. Pointing our flashlights on the muddy path, then, we walked towards the natural bridge.

Halfway there, with the continued onslaught of rain gluing our clothes to our bodies, and with the accumulation of mud on our shoes, our pace slowed. Tapping the glass on my watch, whose hands persisted in revolving strangely, I asked, “Does anyone know what time it is? Are your watches acting funny as well?”

“Mine acts fine,” Michael revealed. It’s 2:19.” 

“No wonder Lodge wasn’t answering when we called,” I said. 

“Everyone’s asleep.”

“What was that?” Will asked.

“I said, no wonder Lodge…”

“…No,” he said, “I heard something.”

Spinning around with my flashlight I captured the shadows of two people standing away from our path. Before I could react, I saw their faces and realized it was Jake and Brennan.

“I told you to go back to the cabin! What are you doing here?” I yelled angrily.

“Not listening,” Jake said comically.

“We wanted to help,” Brennan countered, “please don’t be mad.” His sincerity prevented me from yelling further. We had already come too far for me to feel comfortable sending them back without a counselor. The only option we had was to continue.

We walked for a while before we rounded the bend near the bridge. Up on top of the cliffs, in that area, our property is separated from the neighbors by a tree line. We own the woods, they, the open field to the left of it. In the fall you can clearly see the meadow and a house far off in the distance. In the summer, your view is shrouded.

That said however, the tree line wasn’t enough to shield the dozens of flashlight beams that were scouring the field from reaching us. I stopped my campers instantly—something was wrong. 

“Is it the girls?” Jake asked, stepping closer to me. As if in answer to my question, through the incessant rain and growling of thunder, a helicopter appeared—its lights sweeping over the men (who were wearing orange hazmat suits); its whirling blades adding another element of commotion to the noise of the storm.

“What are they looking for?” Michael asked, stepping closer to me as well.

“I don’t know.”

The walkie talkie crackled again. “Jonathan?” the voice asked.

Michael’s face went white. “That’s not Casey…” he said. But I couldn’t hear his next words—they were drowned by the harshness of barking dogs. It dawned on me too late—if I could see the flashlights of the men in the field, they could see ours.

“Turn off your lights” I told the boys, “Now.” 

It didn’t do any good. 

Over the howling of the dogs, a megaphone shook the night. The order was clear and direct: “Stay where you are.”

I looked at my campers, they at me. “Run,” I said wordlessly. 

The five of us took off; back down the path we had come. Seeing that we had no intention of stopping, our defiance elicited three gunshots, straight into the air, from the man wielding the megaphone.

We skidded to a halt, panting. “Will,” I said, “To your left, straight back you’ll reach the edge of the cliffs. Do you know what’s directly under it if you climb down?”

“The creek?”

“Follow it back to Camp. Go!”

Leaving my boys to the mercy of unbeaten paths, I continued down the easily identifiable one. 

I turned my flashlight back on.

Waving it wildly, I ran until I was certain I was being followed. Approaching a fork, I threw it to one side and continued down the other. I thought this would buy me enough time to put a good amount of distance between my pursuer and me. 

I was mid jump over a puddle when a heavy force tackled me to the ground, knocking all the air from my lungs. My hands were immediately cuffed behind my back and I was pulled to my feet—sweat and mud dripping from my hair. I looked into the face of what I assumed would have been a police officer—but the large mask he wore over his head rendered any form of identification nonexistent. 

“I told you to stop.” His tone was icy. 

“I’m hard of hearing,” I replied.

He forcefully yanked me along by my arm—his fingers would later leave bruises—to the opening of the meadow. The helicopter was still searching from high above; men were walking the field in straight lines abreast to each other (similar to how we were taught to dredge the lake if a camper had gone missing), and on the far edge, staked neatly next to the house was a very large tent. It was to this tent that I was dragged. 

I was made to take off my shoes and watched curiously as two people scanned them with handheld batons. I was then forced to stand inside a booth where a showerhead puffed a cloud of white dust onto my body. Stepping out I shook my hair in the direction of the men. The dust and mud clumped into a nice little mess.

My shoes were thrown at me and I did the best I could (without the use of my hands) in putting them back on. A plastic wall was then parted and a man approached me—he, unlike the others, was dressed in a crisp black suit and smelled grossly of cigars. 

“What were you looking for?” he asked, unblinking, with a tinge of anger coating his words.

“Why am I being detained?” I asked back.

“Our answers seem to be related.” He still hadn’t blinked. I made sure not to lose eye contact.

I took a deep breath and smiled. “I want a lawyer.”

He surprised me. 

He surprised me in a way that turned my stomach and still gives me chills—he laughed. “Son, that doesn’t have any power here.”

He leaned in closer.

“I’ll ask you again.” 

His eye twitched. 

“What were you looking for?” 

I refused to answer.

“Fine.” He said at last when I remained unmoved. “But I have collateral.” He motioned for someone nearby. The plastic wall parted again. In walked Jake. He was flanked on both sides by men holding onto his arms, was shoeless, and was wearing a different outfit than I had seen him in 15 minutes prior. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I was incensed and puzzled. Jake was my camper—he was my responsibility—I thought he had gotten away.

I stared the man with cigar breath down, preparing myself to wield the right expletives. 

“Well?”

My stunned silence was interrupted by his walkie talkie. “4808 incoming.” This message didn’t just come through on his; the one in my pocket also started chirping. It was rapidly taken out, inspected, and placed with my backpack.

“Take them to the basement,” he ordered. “Find out who they are.”

Jake made to open his mouth, but I shook my head ever so slightly and he remained quiet.

We were made to exit the tent in the direction of the house; the man with cigar breath staying behind. A thousand thoughts ran through my head as I struggled to find a way out of this situation. In that moment I was grateful neither of us was wearing shirts with the name of our camp plastered across the front. Something devious was taking place in this little meadow on top of the cliffs, something that my camper and I had unwillingly become a part of. I wanted no visible ties to Camp at all.

I was so focused on my planning that it took Jake’s yelling to draw me back to the present. “Jon,” he screamed as they pulled him in a direction away from me.

“What the hell are you doing, you bastards?” I cried, fighting back, the grip on my arms tightening as I did so.

“Don’t say anything,” I screamed to Jake. “I’ll find you.” Then he was gone; out of my line of sight.

It takes a lot to really scare me. That night, when men masquerading as police officers forcibly took one of my campers away from me as he screamed for help—still keeps me awake. He was frightened and alone. I could do nothing to help him.

I was marched through the dining room of the house that bordered the meadow, while a very disgruntled homeowner sat at the table—I could tell because he was in the family photos that lined the wall. He looked at me sorrowfully; he looked at the men with hatred.

There was a flight of stairs from the kitchen that led to the basement. To my right (after we descended) was an old canning room that was currently used as an office. The lights were off at first and I refused to enter. I struggled against the men that had brought me here, causing the one who held my backpack and walkie talkie to drop them just outside the door. 

I was told to sit and then they left. Approximately twenty minutes passed when a man, dressed similarly to the man with cigar breath entered. He was about 5’8, with a reflective bald head, trimmed in white above his ears. 

“Let me take those cuffs off for you. You must be terribly uncomfortable,” he said, trying to sound friendly.

I wasn’t buying it.

“Thanks,” I said through clenched teeth, rubbing my wrists where the metal had begun to cut into my flesh.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked. 

“John.” I said.

“Yes, yes. That’s what your friend called you.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s my little brother.”

“Oh.” The man replied, jotting this newfound detail into his notebook. “And your last name?”

“Carroll.”

He scrunched his face. “Your name is John Carroll?”

“Blame my parents.” I replied.

“Look, let’s just get this sorted and then you and your brother can go home. It’s as easy as that.”

I knew damn well it wasn’t “as easy as that” but I decided to play dumb—the sooner I was finished with his questions the sooner I could get to Jake.

“What were you doing in the woods this evening?”

“Playing hide-and-seek with my brother.”

“And the flashlights…”

“Well, the sun usually isn’t up at this hour, so…”

“And the walkie talkies…”

“How else would I find him if he was lost?”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw your men dragging him away from me as he screamed my name.”

“No” he said forcefully. “What did you see.”

I truly didn’t understand the question. 

“Let’s try this from another angle. What did you hear?”

“I heard my brother screaming my name as your men dragged him away from me.”

“Circles,” he declared angrily. “You know, I was speaking with your brother before I came here. He’s been far more helpful than you…” 

This time I smiled. “You’re lying,” I said.

“And you’re in a lot of trouble,” he smiled back. 

I averted my eyes to my watch and tapped the glass to try and restore its synchronization. “Then call our parents. I’m sure they’d love to know you’re questioning their underage son without prior approval.”

His eyes grew large as he ignored this. “What’s wrong with your watch?” I could see him studying me hungrily.

“The battery’s dead,” I responded placing my wrist under the table at which we sat.

“What did you see?!” he asked again, his voice rising noticeably. But my presumed answer was hindered by a loud noise coming from his walkie talkie. It continued to grow in volume despite his concerted efforts to turn it down. Finally he removed the batteries.

“I tried to help you, kid. Really I did…” he paused. “…You won’t like what happens next.”

Abruptly he stood from the table and exited the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. I’ll never understand why the old door to this canning room locked from the other side, but I’m grateful it wasn’t a dead bolt…

I was left trying to make sense of all that had happened, when, from outside the room, I heard my walkie intercept a conversation.

“4808 has arrived.”

“And the witnesses?”

“They’ve ordered a transport vehicle. What is their current location?”

“Locked in the house.”

“ETA fifteen minutes…”

My heart stopped beating. An overwhelming panic clogged my senses and my lungs struggled to work. Slowly I tried to count backwards from ten in an effort to regain control... 

I opened my eyes. Rushing to the door I tried the handle—it was only a simple lock. Returning to the desk I threw open the drawers, searching through pens and pads, staples and stamps, until I found what I needed—paperclips. I grabbed two, bending one into a hook and flattening the other. Then I attacked the lock. It only took a few tries until the lock turned (I’m forever grateful to being a mischievous child) and I was out. Grabbing my backpack I looked around—the basement was dark. Jake wasn’t down here.

Gently I ascended the stairs to the kitchen. Turning the corner I ran right into the homeowner. We stared at each other for a moment; adrenaline surging to quiet the fatigue of my day.

Quietly he spoke from the side of his mouth. “My workshop is through the garage; that’s where you’ll find him. Then leave through the front yard. They won’t see you. Hurry.” 

I didn’t even waste a moment to thank him. The garage was off the kitchen and immediately upon entering I could hear loud banging. The door to the workshop was stoppered shut by a sturdy wooden chair under the handle. Kicking it aside, I opened the door to find Jake in the process of ramming it with his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Saving you,” I replied.

“I would have had it in another minute…”

“Wanna argue about this later?”

“Yes,” he grinned, bounding out of the room. 

We made it safely into the driveway when we could hear commotion coming from the meadow behind the house. The rain had lightened but the thunder hadn’t ceased. Crouching behind a row of black cars without license plates, we plotted. 

“If we run straight, keeping to the woods, away from the road, and down that hill I don’t think they’ll see us,” I said. “At the bottom I know a path that will lead us right behind the stables.”

“On three?” Jake asked.

“One,” I said.

“Two,” whispered a voice I didn’t recognize.

Standing underneath a pine tree, illuminated by the porch lights, stood a man, taller and skinnier than I would have thought possible. He looked at us kindly. He didn’t even flinch when a loud blast shattered the windows on the house and cars, cascading glass into our hair. 

“Three,” he yelled.

Jake and I took off running. Branches cut our faces as we smacked into them on our descent. Rocks tore our clothes as we stumbled down the hill. I chanced one look behind—the house was backlit by a large, ferocious, orange glow.

I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief when we reached the stables path. I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief when we slid through the mud in the pasture, nor when our feet crunched the familiar gravel of Camp’s roads. I didn’t even breathe a sigh of relief when my pounding brought a groggy Megeen to the door of her cabin (which is the closest one in that part of the woods).

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sobering instantly from the drunkenness of sleep upon seeing our condition.

“Where were you?” I demanded, “And where’s Casey?”

“Huh? We never went on our overnighter,” she said. “A few of the girls weren’t feeling well so we just had a fire here.”

“What about Casey?” 

The commotion had woken the cabin. Hearing her name, Casey stepped to the door.

“Casey, are you ok?” I asked. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The walkie talkie…you…” I stammered before Megeen cut me off.

“Jonathan, we didn’t go on the overnighter. I returned the walkie to the Lodge.”

“Swear it” I said.

“I swear. Will you tell me what’s going on now?”

“In the morning…” I said as for the final time a harsh voice suspended my thoughts.

It growled from my walkie talkie, “Check the camp.” 

Megeen looked at me confusedly.

“Lock your doors and windows,” I told her. “Don’t open it for anyone. Just pretend you’re asleep.”

“Why?”

“Trust me enough to not ask any more questions?”

She thought for a moment.

“Girls,” she ordered, “to bed!”

Jake and I didn’t run the normal path back to our cabin—we didn’t want to wake up anyone else. Instead we ran the poison ivied path behind the lake, the Christmas lights strung from the trees guiding the way.

Entering the cabin I instantly grabbed the plug, plunging the exterior paths into darkness.

The other boys were long asleep. “Get into to bed, and don’t move for any reason,” I told Jake as I locked our door.

I didn’t sleep that night. I laid in bed facing the wall, waiting.

An hour later I heard rustling outside and saw beams from flashlights poking through our screens, presumably counting each camper in their beds. 

I breathed that sigh of relief when the first rays of dawn highlighted the muddy footprints that were scattered across the cabin’s wooden floor. 

Not one person in Camp was acting strangely at breakfast, either. It was as if the night before never happened. 

Following breakfast I was approached by one of the Lodge members. “Did you get stuck in the storm last night?” she asked.

“Um, no,” I lied. “We never even went up top.”

I sat down with my boys during our rest period that afternoon. 

“Last night was just a big prank set up by the girls,” I said. Thankfully, all but four believed me and didn’t question further. (As a side note, if any of you are reading this, all these years later, I’m sorry I lied. I thought it was in your best interest.)

I found out that Jake had tripped over a metal pole that was lodged in the path and fallen onto a bed of soggy moss—that’s when he was caught. 

Two hours later, during free swim, I saw men dressed in black suits roaming the roads. I climbed up onto the lifeguard chair to get a better look.

“What’s going on?” I asked my friend Jason who was in the water, scrubbing the docks.

“It’s accreditation week. They’re here inspecting the Camp. Why are you acting so weird? We’ve known about this for a while…”

I wanted to believe what he said; the presence of those men that afternoon could have been a coincidence. So I focused on watching the kids swim, participated in a few buddy checks, then collected my clothes and returned to our cabin.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

Beds had been tore apart; suitcases had been emptied all over the floor; the night stand had been flipped over…

“Was it the girls again?” The boys asked, awestruck that they managed such a feat.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was the girls.”

I would think of this night again three years later—long after Jake, Michael, Will and Brennan had been hired and joined the Staff, and we had become close friends; long after the house at the edge of the meadow had been vacated and its charred grass regrown; long after we had even mentioned this to one another. It was while Jake and I drove home from Toronto, that I remembered. 

We had gone to Canada to see a live show of a very popular (at that time) comedian from YouTube. He primarily filmed about kittens, puppies, and other cute animals—I think it was the vulgarity with which he presented himself and the sense of how much he hated what he did that drew us to him.

It was after we crossed the border and our IDs were checked, that we were stopped by Customs. We waited for 45 minutes as they made us pull our bags from the car so a drug dog could search through everything.

I recall later that evening having to ask Jake what the time was—my watch, which after that night during Week 7, 2005 worked perfectly once more, and which was in my bag when we pulled into the Customs Station, was never seen again.

After much reflection, and still, many more unanswered questions, I have permission from my boys to finally tell this story. Because that night has affected our lives in ways you can never imagine. It was the introduction of so much that was to come. 

That night was the moment that everything changed…