THE FINAL FLING

My son and his family are going "camping" this weekend to a 5 star tent hotel with all the amenities of the Four Seasons…and then I thought about my first time...

...Our senior year flew by so quickly and soon we would all be going our separate ways.   Our Y club meetings were over, for good and we were all thinking about summer jobs after graduation.  But we decided at our final and brief meeting that we would have one more fling.  But what to do for our last fling?  The conversation raged on via telephone for weeks.  And when we all thought we should just forget it and let the club dissolve into fond memories, Rob called each of us, “The Collegiates are going camping! Come on, how many of you guys have really roughed it?  Sleeping under the stars, campfires…all that primitive stuff.”

“Why not,” was the consensus.  (Except for me – I didn't have a thing to wear for camping?)  Frank had camped at Lake Nummy State Forest and that’s where our President made a reservation for our back to nature club finale.  He visited the Rev (YMCA Advisor) and got him to agree to come too – as we needed one adult to sign in or we could not get in. Reverend  Snidewigger (Not his real name Rob made it up to protect him for and blame from our antics) agreed but emphatically stressed that there would be absolutely no ALCOHOL – like on our last outing with him !  I thought of the Elmer Gantry movie, “Repent you sinners” when I heard the requirement.

Rob borrowed a bunch of camping paraphernalia from his former Scout Master, and we motored the short drive to the state park on a very warm Friday afternoon the first week in May.  After we signed in and we pledged not to damage anything in the camp we drove around getting a lay of the land (translation: Looking for any babes in the woods).   And we found a bunch of Canadian damsels unfortunately with parents.  Almost every car we saw had a Canadian license plate.  Gus labeled this phenomenon an “interesting choice” for our fine neighbors to the north – we all wondered just why anyone from a place so far away would pick such a ancient and small South Jersey State Park?

The park had wooden tent platforms at each campsite.  And it was just about a ten mile walk to the showers and privies which were the only amenities provided beyond the hand pumps for water that were situated on the various lanes that had been carved out of the pines.   We unloaded our gear.  Our tent was a massive OD green and smelled a lot like a musty attic.  It had stenciled on its flaps, “Property of the US Army”.   The Rev may not have been a ball player, but he surely had been camping and he immediately took charge in setting up our 10 x 15 shelter - had plenty of room for all of us which meant we had to sleep with Rob which was always dangerous. We pitched in and set up the cooking stuff which was definitely of prime importance, staked out our places in the tent with our sleeping bags as I pondered just how handle my extensive wardrobe that I had brought?  Even at that age I was an attire aficionado and still am.

We learned to our chagrin we were warned via a sign of rules posted on a tree at our site: “Please refrain from doing bodily functions in the surrounding woodland – please use the facilities provided; Be careful with all open fires;  cigarettes cause forest fires; if the storm siren rings, take immediate cover as this indicates dangerous winds/lighting, etc.; dispose of all refuse in the provided facilities; clean up your campsite when you vacate; refrain from touching or disturbing all wildlife – this is a protected State Property.”

Good grief, I immediately thought my mother had been hired to write these dire warnings – there were more rules here to obey than at school.  After reading the sign to us, Rob immediately peed on a tree in protest as Frank announced, “He continues to be an embarrassment!”  Next we sat at the large and well-worn picnic table with splintery benches and all pondered the same thought – “We’re here, unpacked and settled, now what the hell do we do?”  Rob broke the silence – “Hey Colligates let go swimming!”  The guys quickly change as I tried to decide which swim suit to wear and selected a new red plaid cabana ensemble I bought at Frank's Men and Boys.  And I donned my grey English driving cap with the little belt in the back.

Lake Nummy, a tribal name from which it got its name was located in the Bellplain State Forest, which was a myriad of tents, pop-ups and an area of large RV’s which weren’t called that then – they were called camping trailers and seem much simpler than the massive land cruisers of today. The beach was a narrow strip of white south Jersey sand and a lifeguard was posted in a high chair and seriously overlooked the lake was devoid of swimmers – I thought the “lake” look more like a pond – but it was a hot day and very inviting after our ten minutes’ walk.  Rob doffed his liberated Thunderbolt football game shirt and sprinted to the water and dove in – in a flash he literally flew up from the water, hovered in the air and then ran back to the beach.  His lips were already blue, and he was covered in “goosebumps” – “OH (bodily function expletive)...MY GOD”, he exclaimed.  “That the coldest water I have ever been in – ever, even the time I fell through the ice on our club’s annual skating event.”  And he was right.  I would learn that the “lake” was fed by an underground spring that maintained the water at about 55 degrees all summer long, no matter what the air temperature.  It was indeed “freezing”, but all dove in and frolicked in it, we swam, fish jumped, frogs croaked near the dark waters.  The water was called “cedar water” – a very dark reddish brown, which we would learn would stain our clothes; turn our hair to auburn and tan our skins without drug store assistance.  I personally did not like bathing in water where I could not see my feet.  But I got used to it – and after a while even enjoyed the extreme cooling effect on this 93-degree day. 

 I did venture in briefly but would spend most of my time reading my paperback copy of The Organization Man which was on my personal summer reading list.

           What happened next would go down in history for each of us as one of our most remarkable experiences.  It all began after we had showered off as much of the cedar water as possible, trudged back and decided it was time to “cook” our first “dinner.”  There was an ancient charcoal grill on a metal stand kindly provided by the Garden State.  Rob wanted to build a “campfire” – but was overruled.  We all agreed that we were far too hungry to forage.  Maybe tomorrow?  The Rev took charge of the cooking and piled a high mound of briquettes on the greasy grill a then tried to light it with a match.  He added newspaper.  There was not a single wisp of air.  This late afternoon all was quiet as our neighbor campers attended to the never-ending camping chores.  The aroma of wood fired barbecue was all around us.  After blowing on the coals; fanning them with a newspaper; adding dried leaves; praying over them – the Rev loudly announced, “I can’t do this!”  Which was as close to swearing as he ever got.   We turned and saw Rob say “I’ve got thi…and he started shaking a gasoline can that he found in the Rev’s trunk.  “This should do it,” he proclaimed.As we all screamed in uttered in horror – “ROB, DON’T DO IT”! - as Rob tilted the can and poured a stream of gasoline on the smoldering coals and a flame started to travel up the stream toward the gas can in his hands.  Dan dove under the picnic table; Gus flew behind the tent; Frank stood frozen with jaw agape; and I thought, “Ah, this is how it all ends, by fire rather than ice.”  But at that moment, the Rev sprang into action and tore the gas can from Rob’s hands (with it’s red and yellow sides wheezing in and out like a bellows) and he sprinted away from us to the road and then threw the can as far as he could.  There was a sputtering and we waited for the explosion - but nothing happened.  We were saved.  And we had witnessed the bravest act of heroism that we were ever exposed to in our young lives.  The Rev, with no thought for his own safety acted while we were just watching – even though there had been only several ounces of petrol left in the can – but that didn’t matter, it was the thought that counted.  His bravery averted what could have been a disaster.  He walked back to our campsite, his face ashen and his hands shaking.  I imagined that he probably dreamed of this moment his whole life.  And pondered what I would do if presented with this life-or-death moment.  His pastorly faith was finally tested, and he would never be the same timid soul again. 

And we, the Collegiates, would never call him the Reverend Snidewigger again – from that moment on we saw him much differently than the meek preacher that we though he was.