Campfire Classic
Graham-cracker crumb, chocolate mousse, toasted meringue
The happy camper knots lanyard, rows canoe, and toasts marshmallow. My camp snubbed such clichés. We pulled on leotards early and kicked off toe shoes late. Though our days were tempered by tall pines and cool breezes, we focused solely on sweat.
Six days a week the Level 1s followed the Level 2s in their pirouettes and poise. The Level 2s followed the Level 3s, all arched eyebrows and endless extensions. The Level 3s followed the ballet master, one powerful arm drawing arcs with the orange point of his cigarette.
Sunday mornings we walked into town to wash our tights, buy foot salve, and sneak chocolate. Sunday afternoons we edged down to the stream. Wobbling into the icy water, we shed our rankings. We were girls.
The current slid, swirled, and leapt. We tipped our snorkel masks under the rush to admire the quiet stones below. Someone pulled off her mask and watched it sink. Treading and bobbing, we devised a plan. On the count of three we’d all duck, plunge, and grab it. We ducked, plunged, and hesitated.
The gear waited on the bottom. The girls waited underwater, palms wide, eyes wide, each expecting the other to act. It came to me as a surprise: I could be the one to dive deep, snag the strap, and surface triumphant.
I wasn’t a Level 3 dancer. I wasn’t Level 2. But I could lead. And that was well worth a summer of sweat.