Sarah Phillips by Andrea Lee (beach books .TXT) 📗

the water. The afternoon had grown overcast, and as Terkel talked about water safety and demonstrated the proper way to dip and feather a paddle—the lecture was chiefly for the newcomers, since the campers had been handling canoes all summer—swarms of audacious gnats made forays at our eyes and ears. Suddenly, in the middle of the talk, Marvin Jones strode over to one of the aluminum canoes on the shore and began to push it toward the water. “I want to go for a ride, mister,” he said politely to Jimmy Terkel. “I know how to do this. I see it all the time on TV.”

Three other Thunderbirds grabbed paddles and rushed over to the canoe, pushing it through the shallows to deeper water and tilting it dangerously when they all climbed in, about fifteen yards from shore. “That’s too many in a boat, fellows!” called Jimmy Terkel, coming forward. The gunwales of the overloaded canoe were riding about six inches above the surface of the lake, and the boat shipped water occasionally as the passengers thrashed about trying to position themselves; miraculously, the canoe did not capsize. There was an argument between two of the Thunderbirds (“You on my arm, man!”) and then the canoe took off with an irregular splayed motion as Marvin Jones and a second Thunderbird paddled with great splashing thrusts.

“Oh, no!” Jimmy Terkel muttered, glancing automatically at the heap of orange life preservers on the shore. But no disaster occurred. The canoe made its awkward, lunging way into a cluster of lily pads, and we heard the delighted yells of the novice canoeists as they yanked up the tough-stemmed blossoms, an act that the camp staff, ardent conservationists all, had raised in our minds to the level of a felony. Then the boys in the boat all took off their shirts, and Marvin Jones stood precariously upright to paddle like a gondolier, a big lily coiled dripping around his neck. There was something barbaric and absurd about the sight of him paddling that overloaded canoe, which, as it wobbled heavily over the dark water, seemed a parody of a boat, something out of a nursery rhyme. As I watched it, there came to me out of nowhere a surge of pure happiness. The other campers seemed to feel it as well; the faces of the kids around me were contorted with crazy laughter, and some of them were jumping up and down. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the boys, from pure joie de vivre, as it were, pick up a handful of sand and rub it into the hair of his bunkmate. Just for a minute, it seemed that the camp was a place where any mad thing could happen. While Jimmy Terkel stood on the shore with an angry smile on his face, campers and Thunderbirds alike were almost dying with glee. We laughed as if we’d never seen anything so funny.

That was the last, really the only, good time we had with the Thunderbirds. Later that afternoon a scuffle broke out near the camp infirmary between two of the gang members and a stableboy. A burly counselor from Honolulu broke up the fight, which was just a matter of shoving and name-calling. The participants were made to stand face to face and explain themselves, and in the process they quite spontaneously shook hands and apologized. In ten minutes the camp grapevine had telegraphed news of the scuffle to all parts of Grayfeather. It seemed that everyone involved in the fight had laughed it off except for Ned Woolworth, who rushed to the scene and glared at the three boys as if he wanted to knock them all down.

The staff had scheduled a hayride for that night. Normally, the campers looked forward to hayrides: the dusky country roads, shrill with insects; the creaky wagon and plodding, pungent horses; the deep, scratchy hay that offered the opportunity for a little romantic improvisation (though Grayfeather, a camp of overeducated fourteen-year-olds, was notoriously backward in that department). That particular evening, a subtle intelligence flashed through the ranks of the campers, a kind of mass intuition that suggested that things would be much better if we let the Thunderbirds go hayriding on their own. To the bewilderment of our counselors, who had no way of forcing us to accept a treat, all of the campers, gently but immovably, refused to go.

After dinner, Ellen, Chen-cheu, and I, and the other girls from our tent, took part in a desultory sunset game of Capture the Flag as the Thunderbirds and their girls, escorted by Grayfeather staff members, boarded the wagon. An hour and a half later, the returning wagon creaked slowly up to the rec hall. Norah Pfleisch, a plump, excitable junior counselor, rushed inside and burst into tears on the shoulder of Ned Woolworth’s wife, Hannah, who was directing a spur-of-the-moment Ping-Pong tournament.

“I’ve never, never had anything like this happen,” sobbed Norah, resisting Hannah’s efforts to lead her out of the rec hall and away from the fascinated gaze of forty campers. “They—fornicated! They lay in the hay like animals and just… did it! It started when we went under the old covered bridge. It was such a beautiful night. Usually we sing on hayrides, but this time I didn’t know where to look, or what to listen to!”

We all rushed to the door of the rec hall. Outside, under a clear night sky streaked with meteor showers, the Thunderbirds and their girls, chattering loudly and innocently, were climbing out of the wagon, pulling hay out of each others’ clothes.

Things fell apart completely the next day. That morning at swimming class another fight broke out, this one between Femi, the camper from Nigeria, and an agile, pale-skinned, sullen-faced Thunderbird. On the shore in front of the swimming area of the lake, as the white rope and bright floats of the lane dividers bobbed gaily in the morning sun, two counselors held back the