Page 15 of Camp Help Falling

“Does a yacht count?”

I’m about to roll my eyes and laugh it off, but Oliver looks serious. “You’ve been on a yacht?”

He shrugs a massive shoulder. “A friend of a friend has one. He takes it out on all the big summer holidays.”

Holy smokes.

Oliver’s casual mention of a yacht just underscores the difference between us and is an easy reminder that his parents bought the camp. I’m over here in self-propelled boat land, and he’s been on one that could pass for a house. I shake off my thoughts and stick my hand out, waiting for Oliver to deposit a paddle into it. “No, a yacht doesn’t count.”

“Then no.” Oliver smiles that dazzling full smile and passes me a paddle. I almost pass out.

Get it together, Sadie. He’s just a guy. A guy you can’t date, remember?

“Okay,” I say, dumping my paddle into the canoe and gripping the sides again. “The most important rule is don’t stand in the canoe.” I push it again until the front is bobbing in the water, but it’s still anchored to the shore. I turn to face Oliver. “Paddling is easy. I’ll take the back and handle the steering.”

He eyes the bobbing boat.

“Oh come on, it’s not that hard.” I put my hand on the end, providing a firmer anchor as I gesture to Oliver. “Hop in.”

He steps in slowly, making the canoe rock wildly from side to side until he drops like a rock onto the forward seat. I roll my lips together to hide my smile. He laughs nervously and holds his paddle across his lap as I heave and push the canoe the rest of the way into the water. At the last second, I jump in, giving us a final push to clear the beach.

Once I get settled, I start paddling. Oliver glances back at me and begins paddling on the same side. I switch, and he switches, too.

“Oliver, we have to paddle on opposite sides to go straight.” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. It’s funny to see this city boy so out of his element out here.

He twists his upper body to look back at me, and the canoe dips to one side. “Hey! Face forward, buddy!”

“Sorry!” he calls back to me when he rights himself and the canoe levels out again. “So we paddle around the lake…just because?”

“Yep. That’s the point. A lot of the things we do here at camp are things that the participants only do at camp. It’s part of what makes camp special.”

At least, that’s how it was for me. I grew up in a suburb of Logan, Utah. A middle-class neighborhood with rows and rows of houses. I was in band and played soccer in high school. My parents aren’t even big campers. But a friend of a friend told them about Camp Brower, and I was hooked after that first year. I begged to go back. And I begged to work there.

Because camp had something about it that I just didn’t get at home. Most obviously, the archery range and the lake. But there was always something more, something deeper. A sense of peace and rightness. Camp was my place. My home away from home.

Oliver nods and continues to paddle. I continue to steer, occasionally giving him directions to “switch sides” or “paddle backwards.” In no time, we’re gliding across the lake, weaving in and out of the other canoes filled by campers and youth staff.

I sense it before I see it.

A smirk. A subtle turn.

A canoe with two of the youth staff assigned to this group of participants slices by, close enough for one of the boys to lob a blob of lake plants into our canoe. It hits Oliver on the back of his life jacket, and a few tangles of long, wet stems cling to the top edge, while the rest plop into the bottom of the canoe.

The boys swiftly paddle away, laughing at their oh-so-clever practical joke, leaving me with a smile because…well, it was kind of funny.

You know who doesn’t think it’s funny?

Oliver.

With a yelp that’s far above his usual register, he jumps to his feet, reaching back to untangle the weeds that are touching the back of his neck.

“Oliver, NO!”

His erratic movement frees the few stems tangled on his life jacket, but not before he over balances and the canoe tips, sending us both into the cold lake.

I bob quickly to the surface, thanks to my life jacket, but not before getting a mouthful of lake water. Oliver comes up sputtering, his breaths coming in short pants, thanks to the chilly water that comes from the ice caves just north of here.

“Are you okay?” I ask, swimming over to where he’s bobbing, frantically pulling at the back of his life vest.

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