Between the ages of 9 and 14 I attended girl scout camp every summer. The camp was large and was comprised of three groups. The general camp had over 100 girls each session and did a little of everything - arts & crafts, games, singing, canoeing, and swimming instruction. The canoeing camp had at least 30 girls, required intermediate swimming skills, and was very popular. They were the cool girls, and the general campers worked diligently all summer to improve their swimming skills so they could join their ranks the following year. Finally, there was the sailing camp - a hardcore bunch of piss and vinegar sisters who swam like fish and cussed like sailors. Never more than 13 campers at a time (partly because not many girls could pass the water qualifications and partly because the chicks were just a little intimidating), and what they lacked in grace was more than made up for in a shiny brass pair of adolescent ovaries. This was my camp. Each summer I attended, among the ranks were me, two girls who called themselves Bartles & Jaymes, a junior naturalist who shared her bed each night with a 6 foot rat snake, and a chick - formerly named Sunshine - who had her name legally changed to Cloudy after losing a leg to gangrene.
My long-held fear of snakes was put to the test each morning before dawn. We would slip out of our bunks, pull on our suits, and make our way to the docks off which our sailboats were anchored about 40 yards from shore. On the way to the lake we'd pass a tree housing a family of venomous copperheads, only to head into a dark cold lake infested with water moccasins. My first summer of camp I was terrified every day. Most nights I would barely sleep, just thinking about awaking to face the agony all over again. The snakes were concentrated under the dock that extended toward our bobbing boats, and they would swim slowly and freely around you as you made your way out. Rarely, if ever, did I feel the actual skin of one touch me - only the ribbony whip of the water as the circled my legs or waist. Even without these daily encounters, the mere knowledge of their presence was enough! By my second summer I took notes from the older girls and got smarter. The frightful journey from closed tent to open sails was inevitable, so I learned to barely wake myself from sleep - making my bed virtually blind, wrap my arms tightly around my chest, shielding myself from the morning chill as I left the campsite. I spoke to no one and made no stops as I headed quickly toward the water, and gently slipped in. I went from cold dark ground to cold dark water, and on into my boat paying little head to the dangers that lurked all around.
The collective goal was to be in our small Sunfish sailboats and at least a mile up the lake by dawn. As ridiculous as it sounds, I became so attached to my morning entry routine that by the time I hoisted my sail and set out, a subtle sense of uneasiness engulfed me. The most frightening part of my day was behind me, but I couldn't help but wonder what to do with the dawn.
Most sunrises came slow and smooth, and drenched our faces with warm sunlight. Our silence would break and we'd make jokes as we yelled at each other from boat to boat - determining our objective for the day, or teasing one another about skinny dipping the night before. (Who's gonna have big boobs? Stay flat chested? Who needs to start waxing their legs?) We'd sail up the lake and capsize our boats so we could lay across the exposed bottoms and catch some rays - the rudder jutting straight toward the sky as we lay on either side. Then we'd reach up and grab the rudder, pulling down and stepping on it to right our boats - careful to lower our heads as the boom swung across. (My tent-mate was not so careful on more than one occasion!) We'd eat lunch out of containers we brought, dock at interesting looking spots to explore the area, and always planned the occasional "run-in" with a canoe group from the boyscout camp. (Our favorite trick was to take out the catamaran and lay bare chested on the mesh netting while the boys swam underneath. We felt deliciously trampy and scandalous!) No matter what the agenda, each day was wonderful. And I still consider it to be one of the most liberating times in my life. So its odd that I remember so clearly that catch in my chest each morning as the sun prepared to breach the horizon - that fear of an unknown future, no matter how beautiful it was destined to be.
With less than 3 months until the end of classes and the end of my time in law school, I feel much the same as I did most mornings on the lake. For 3 years, I have been in that dark cold water - eyes closed tight, motions focused, swimming strong against creatures sly and eager, spinning figure-eights in my wake. I know this fear, along with my methods for keeping it at bay. Looking ahead, I do believe that joy, and peace, and success are destined for me, but whereas my fear and I are old bedfellows, that light is yet to be my own. So instead of celebrating the end of a long and arduous journey, I sit with my face toward the horizon, my eyes frantically scanning for those last shadows of night. I praise God for another safe passage through darkness, yet still feel my heart catch as I wonder, "What to do with the dawn?"
