Love Sick

As a child, my style was like a chunky white girl's unintentional homage to the iconic look of RNB super-duo Salt-N-Pepa. I often sported an impressive array of massive t-shirts that I corner tucked into Bermuda length spandex and paired an uneven haircut. My entire body was like a magnificent Pangea of scabs thanks to an unholy number of mosquito bites and absolutely no self control. Calling the look “distinct” is a really kind way of putting it.

That being said, I had swagger for days. I had, and still have, the kind of blind conviction that is normally reserved for cult leaders. So when my clammy butt cheeks were finally let loose from the passenger seat of my family's van in the summer of 1999 onto the Camp Thunderbird campground, I knew that I was about to make friendships to last a lifetime. There was only one snag to the plan. It turned out that every other camper there begged to differ.

But from the ashes of my failed social ambition burst forth a new flame. We will call him “Charles” not because I want to respect his privacy, but because I can't remember his name and Charles is the most British name I can think of. Oh yes, did I mention? He was British. The first real-live British person I had ever met and the head instructor for what must have been British Canoeing and British Kayaking, although I am pretty sure it translates well across the cultures. As I recall he had a somewhat British face with British-esque hair, but what I remember most was his British accent. The very same charming accent that had been ingrained into my preteen inner monologues for the role of “comforting romantic male archetype”. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve but with sugar plums and fairies replaced with Colin Firth and Hugh Grant dancing in my head. I didn't stand a chance. It was a David and Goliath story and I was fresh out of pebbles. I was in LUV, L-U-V.

What did this mean? Well, rather than a balanced activity schedule of Arts and Crafts, Archery, Swimming, and then maybe an occasional trip to the Canteen like some of the more well-socialized campers, I had one singular obsession. Canoeing and Kayaking. These two water vessels were to be the medium through which I was going to express the purity of my love. Swapping scabs for blisters I spent all day on the lake crisping myself in the Southern sun, transforming my small hands into raw, undersized chicken cutlets. I paddled myself to the point of fatigue most days. I was actually showboating to try and get his attention.

It was just crazy enough to work, and it did, in a way. Misinterpreting my fervor for a shared love of paddling, Charles spent extra time with me working on techniques not covered with other campers. This attentiveness fueled my frenzy. On the water I was performing incredible feats of strength, bailing out boats and treading water like I was in basic training for some kind of elementary school aged tactical squad. You know how you hear stories about toddlers lifting flipped ATVs off of their mothers in a rush of undying love and heroic adrenaline? It was like that. I was his favorite buddy, sometimes we ate meals together. I especially liked the day he turned my face sideways and put antibiotic drops in my ears to ward off infection from the putrid lake water. That was a very good day.

Now let me clarify, Charles was nothing but a tender and platonic shepherd to his flock. In fact I am pretty sure looking back I was just a “nice guy” pawn in the chase of another age appropriate female counselor. I once passed a note between them, mistaking my role as a human pigeon to be one of honorable distinction. This would be the first time I had mistaken friendship for romance, but trust me when I say it wouldn't be the last.

At the end of camp, as a final test of my affection, there was an overnight canoe trip led by my leading man and meant for only the older campers. Refusing to be separated, I sought and received special permission to participate. Little did I know I was on the brink of one of life's biggest lessons. Because much like how I was not ready for real love, I was not ready for real survival. Never before in my life did I have to bring my own supplies anywhere, as far as I was concerned orange slices and Capri Sun pouches were just naturally occurring phenomena at any aerobic event. In my mind, I was prepared for anything. Beyond my overnight clothes, I had brought along a tube of Dr. Pepper LipSmackers and a sensible scrunchie to keep the hair off of my face. It was sporty, yet flirty. I did not bring a single drop of water. Not one.

A few hours into the trip, I was facing an impossible conundrum. What was I to do? I felt like if I asked Charles for a sip of water, he would suddenly realize I was both eleven years old and unworthy of love simultaneously. So as much as I craved to share a surface that had once touched his delightful British mouth, it was simply not an option. All around me I was taunted by the light, playful splashing of paddles on water. Cool, delicious, refreshing water. Water. Water which I desperately desired. There was only one way to keep from breaking the spell. Once we arrived at camp, I snuck into the shallows and when no one was looking gulped down as much lake water as I could. Which, as always with hindsight, was a very shitty idea.

Within hours the stomach cramping and core rattling bowel urges set in. This was in stark contrast to the romantic evening of peaceful stargazing I had imagined. My body was not just betraying me, this was a full on mutiny. It was as though every proclamation of love I had swallowed down over the past three weeks had been resentfully digested, and now saw a ripe opportunity to burst forth from the other end. I have always verged on chatty, as being talkative is just symptomatic of how nervous I tend to get around certain people. In this case however, it wasn't just verbal diarrhea, it was the actual runs. I prayed for nightfall that I might have the shroud of night to expel the gurgling shame building up inside of me. Unfortunately though the sunset was beautiful, it tragically lingered too long.

I convinced myself that if I just acted natural, the whole situation could remain undetected. My signature style aided me in hiding the truth. I secretly ditched the leggings and wore my massive shirt like a really hip mumu. But an irritable, immoveable 9 year old cold sweating like they are going through coke withdrawal tends to attract a certain amount of attention. Discovered and disgraced, I was brought back to camp by speedboat and taken to the camp infirmary.

I'm sure there was behind-the-scenes concern that I had eaten something bad at the camp. Perhaps I should have broken silence about where the contamination originated, but I remained tight-lipped rather than further incriminate myself as the most foolish girl who had ever lived.

The test results indicated gastroenteritis and streptococcal virus. And since I was still infectious, I was put into isolation for the remaining three days of camp. I was going to have to do hard time for soft stool. Those few days spent quarantined were long and lonely. Except for the occasional check-in by a camp nurse, I sat alone in bed all day with almost nothing to occupy my time except the traumatic scene looping in my head. I was reaching the early conclusion that romantic love was fated to lead only to humiliation and abandonment.

A few days later I was deemed fit enough to attend the closing of camp ceremonies, a social night of recognizing campers for what they had accomplished during their time at camp. Towards the end of the evening, my heart skipped a beat as Charles took to the microphone. He said, and I am translating from British here, that he was to announce the winners of the Golden Paddle, an award that was to recognize achievement in canoeing and kayaking. I had just enough time to harden myself in preparation to hear him say my full name for the last time. And this year we have our youngest recipient ever, Rebecca Henderson. I could feel the other campers' eyes as they hosted a silent question and answer session. Is that the girl who? Yeah. Because let's be real, it was a sorry you shit your pants please don't blame us consolation prize and they knew it, I knew it, we all knew it.

Though the gilded paddle was not mine to keep, I was allowed to hold it for a good portion the night. As tanned spaghetti strapped bodies group-hugged after swapping landline numbers, I mostly stood to the side, half hoping someone might remember me and half praying everyone would just completely forget. The paddle had been freshly spray painted, so as I gripped it between crossed arms gold dust rubbed off on my chest. Many camps may promise it, but that summer at Camp Thunderbird without a doubt did put me on the path to becoming the person I am today. An occasionally lonely woman with a heart of gold, steely resolve and ever-mercurial bowels.