I arose at the horrific hour of 4 AM, brushed my teeth, packed up my graduation loot, and made for the Seattle-Tacoma Airport to make my triumphant return to CIC.
My passage through the airport was uneventful, except I got to walk by this sweet mural that depicts this full-size magic show in various stages. I used to LOVE that wall as a kid, and it calls out to me with mystery and excitement, and I don't know what it is, but even though the magician and his assistant are obviously two dimensional and composed of paint, there is something haunting about them. It really does seem like they are staring at you right out of the paint, silently watching the thousands of air passengers that pass them each day. Moving right along...
Flight went without incident, except for some little kid that screamed for take off and landing, which I'm not really too bothered by, I think the kid's mother was more concerned than anyone else on the aircraft. Maura Schmitz, the famous German philosopher picked me up from the terminal after I checked on the status of Elizabeth's Virgin flight, which was about half an hour early. We proceeded to Panera bread where I purchased a soda for the philosopher-queen and two bacon and egg sandwiches for myself. They were delicious, satisfying a deep hunger that had burned from 4 AM onward. We sat for about two hours chatting about various things at camp, and she regaled me with the madness that was the 2009 CIC Challenge Area. I think they get a little nutty back there because they are so far from the waterfront and they get dried out. There was more than enough drama back there last year to qualify them for their own reality TV show.
We then proceeded to the airport and recovered another staffer, an Elizabeth Brewster of New York. Maura whisked us over to the boat terminal and we waded into a sea of Boy Scouts to await our boat to Two Harbors. While there, Elizabeth asked a number of questions about camp, which I was happy to answer, and I tried to talk to a couple of the scouts about Emerald Bay. Usually they'd respond to my questions respectfully and then leave the area. I miss my patch-laden khaki shirt and my worn green Scout pants...
Anyway, boat ride over was uneventful, we shared the vessel with some staff from Emerald, one of whom I congratulated on being an Eco (Ecology/Conservation or Nature) staffer and exhorted him to make Scoutcraft (the arch-nemesis of all things green, living, and intellectual) look stupid. As if that needed doing...
We were met at the dock by none other than the legendary Tom Horner, who saved my bacon two blog entries back. He welcomed us both warmly, and transported us to the interior of the island in some sort of SUV (Land Cruiser? Land Rover? Landmobile? Landmonster?). Before reaching the destination of the staff overnight (Shark Harbor), we ran into Becky the Administrative Director and Master of the Internet, along with several other staff members. Tom stopped to say hi, there was a brilliant flash of light, and suddenly he and his car were gone and Elizabeth and I were walking on the road with everyone else. It was disconcerting to say the least. I suspect Emi G might have used her 80s magicks on me.
We walked about the last fifth of the Sharks hike, and arrived in Little Harbor to many congratulations and singing of pomp and circumstance (a song that while I appreciated, I have little interest in hearing ever again). Shortly after our arrival, we proceeded to the beach and learned the ways of the overnight and daytrip from Miah, Julie, and Heather. Miah taught us that waves are curvy, Julie taught us that Nick Shattuck can harmonize, and Heather was awesome in some vague way that escapes my memory.
While normally on a staff training expedition to Shark Harbor, there would be swimming, sunbathing, and some misguided but hilarious attempts at surfing, on that particular day the waves were small, the clouds were thick, the wind was strong, and the air was cold, thus only a few insane individuals entered the water, and it saddens me that their names have been lost to the mists of bad memory. However, on the way back, Chris Orosz, Abigail Johnston, and myself ventured up onto some rock formation that Chris called, "The Whale's Tail", which afforded an excellent view of Shark Harbor. While we were up there, Nature Detective Chris located the skeleton of an eel atop one of the cliffs, and theorized that a bird had carried it up there to murder it and feed on its flesh. It was very cool looking, and I believe he got some excellent pictures, investigate (stalk through) his facebook page sometime if you get the chance.
When we returned to our campsite, Nick discovered that his backpack had been destroyed. Blaming Eoin for the damage (not sure why) he nearly carried out his revenge through painful and lethal means, but his hand was stayed when he noticed a squirrel carrying part of his bag in its mouth. The vandal cackled in the high-pitched laughter of insane men and malevolent rodents, and ran into the bushes. Eoin was emotionally scarred but survived the ordeal.
At this point, dinner was served, and we gorged ourselves on a fantastic meal of bean burritos and probably some other stuff. I helped by warming up the tortillas over the fire because Danny "Announcements" Sudman had to run off and wrestle a Bison. After dinner, the camp staff who would be living with kids were split up into Boys and Girls camps and engaged in that most aptly named of CIC training programs: Speed Dating. Basically the idea is to let counselors and specialists rapidly interview each other so they can figure out who they want as a co-counselor for the first session. This process actually was somewhat more involved this year than I recall from my previous seasons, and ended up taking over an hour.
In the meantime, Leadership busied itself with cleaning up after dinner. We finished these tasks relatively quickly, and found ourselves with nothing to do, and I'm unsure how it started, but someone shot a foam dart at Phillip, and this action evolved into an hour long game that was probably the most fun I've ever had with the leadership team. We started rolling hula-hoops on the grass and attempting to dive, duck, or slip through them before they fell over. Only at camp could such an activity hold the attention of so many adults for so long, but we stood in a circle for a good long while as each of us attempted to run the proverbial gauntlet time and time again. Miah Smith and Chris Orosz (aforementioned Nature Detective) seemed to be the most taken with this activity, but all of the LT was involved. For a long time I did not participate, but a part of my mind was summoned back to the damp shores of Silver Lake, where a Waterfront Director once taught me the subtle science of the running somersault after he had tossed me through the air onto some gravel and wounded my hand. I pondered for a long time whether or not this skill would be applicable in the pursuit of passing through a rolling hula-hoop, and finally decided to practice the maneuver off to the side, much to the amusement of Phillip West. After everyone finished laughing at my reluctance to attempt the roll in the middle of the group, I decided to give it a shot. It was a decided failure, but ended up looking cool and generating more chuckles. Something about my legs coming up always catches the top of the hoop.
I got a little heated talking about the failings of the movie Avatar with Tom Horner, and was disgusted when Andrew "Rope Burn" Wright called that most excellent of TV shows, The X-Files, merely "okay". A less true statement has never been made. Phillip also exported some confusion over the difference between television and film.
As the light fled from the skies, the staff gathered around the campfire, as some primordial imperative seems to consistently drive us into doing. Guitars were unsheathed, songs were sung, and smores were immolated. Tom Horner slipped off into the shadows in his snowy-white Landsmasher, and a number of directors approached me and leaned on me until I agreed to tell a campfire story. The story was the same one previously posted on this blog, and it went perfectly, until I screwed up the very last stanza and then swore quietly. Laughs were had, which were okay, but I still would have liked to get it right. Oh well, this is why we have training, so I can screw up and make things better for the kids.
The staff slept in a huge blob of loud comments and chatter, while Nick Osti and Phillip West retired to the camp van, like the pathetic excuses for outdoorsmen that they are. They encouraged me to join them in their automotive cowering but I retained my dignity and chose to sleep on the ground, as it should be. I am unsure where the Directors went to sleep, but they invisibled themselves quite effectively. After indulging Phillip's ravings on secret code names for roughly twenty minutes, I laid out the sleeping bag that Nick Osti had lovingly packed for me while I was commencing, and put my own sleeping bag on top of it. I laid down, resting my tired head on my right arm, looking forward to harassing Phillip in the morning for his weaknesses. As I lay there, my eyes shut, my mind dim, on the very cusp of sleep, I felt a pair of tiny teeth indenting on my index finger. I was so utterly shocked by this sensation that I jolted awake, my eyes flying open to discover the identity of my toothed attacker. And there, sitting about two feet in front of my face, was my formidable arch-nemesis, glaring at me with all the evil and malice born of a thousand cold and moonless nights spent wandering the hills and vales of this godforsaken rock: a Catalina Island Fox. Weighing in at what looked five pounds, the Nameless Foe regarded me with surprise, I suspect it assumed that I was dead or incapacitated, and had failed to take into account my wiles. I swore loudly in surprise, and smacked my fist against the earth, sending tremors out across the campsite. The Enemy recoiled in fear and disappointment, and scampered off into the bushes. I swear on the United States Constitution that this last paragraph is 100% true.
I was somewhat disturbed by this event, and so I decided to move my gobstopper-containing pack into the van with Nick and Phillip in case of another assault by the evil fox armies. I then moved my sleeping arrangements over near the staff blob, but was soon driven away by the volume. And so I braved the empty field alone, I clutched my heavy flashlight close, and listened to the calls of the foxes in the distance, eventually drifting off into an uneasy slumber.
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