Yawgoog
by Scott Teel

The trip to Camp Yawgoog always started at Orient Point, where the departing Boy Scouts would gather to bid adieu to family and board the ferry to Connecticut, and from there a bus to Rhode Island.

On the upper deck of the ferry, I stood with my cousin, Brian, worrying about the week ahead.

“What if I can't learn our camp song?” I asked him. “What will the other scouts do to me?”

“First they strip you naked,” he said. “Then they make you walk a half mile into the woods. Then they cut off your head and hang it from the highest tree in the camp. Your body is eaten by raccoons, and then the raccoon droppings containing your elements are used to fertilize cocaine plants that are eventually processed into crack and given to nursery-school children.”

“Would they really make me walk a whole half mile?”

Mr. Holst, our scoutmaster, came over munching on a ferry frank, a hot dog constructed out of the remains of jellyfish that get sucked into the ship's engines. These franks are doused in a mustard-substance known to knock seagulls who accidentally ingest it right out of mid-air, and smack-dab into the middle of the Long Island Sound, where they sink like clay pigeons. Mr. Holst had paid money for one of these. A little dab of mustard-substance was calmly eating its way through his blue neckerchief to his scoutmaster’s shirt. Although he was Brian’s father and my uncle, we both called him “Mr. Holst” to avoid the appearance of favoritism in the ranks.

“What’s up boys?” he asked us.

“Scott’s nervous about camp,” Brian told him.

True. I was 12 and had never been away from home for more than a night or two. And I couldn't even pronounce the camp's name (admit it, neither can you. Nice try. It’s Yah-goo).

“Well, that’s natural,” Mr. Holst said. “But once you’re there, you’ll start to work on merit badges, it’ll be lotsa fun...” He wandered away, the July sun gleaming off his head. Uncle Allen has been bald for as long as I can remember, probably his whole life. The first light that reflected off of his head into space has reached the Crab Nebula.

We docked in Connecticut and were bused to the campground in Rhode Island. Camp Yawgoog was segmented into three smaller camps: Medicine Bow, Three-Point, and Sandy Beach. The latter housed our campsite. Our tent slept four; this was my first problem. With only two friends at the camp (Brian and Matt, who'd convinced me to join the scouts) I had to share living space with the Butelli brothers, who didn't want me living in their space. Similarly, most of the other scouts in our troop felt that I was a waste of carbon molecules which might otherwise be put to use as something more valuable to them, like granola. I could see that this week was going to offer me in-the-field experiences to add to my detailed thesis on wedgies (there’s no substitute for experience, you know).

I trekked to the campsite under the weight of my enormous, heavy, Summer Camp Backpack, a conglomeration of pipes and green nylon that cost nearly as much as a Picasso and made your spine look like one after you had hiked with it for about 10 minutes. The pack contained all of the supplies needed to sustain me for the week: underwear (in case I decided to change it), Mountain Dew, a dying flashlight, Deep Woods Off, a Swiss Army knife (for looks, mostly), Cheetos, and, perhaps most important for survival, my bug net: the rectangular box of netting which would keep me in an insect-free environment while I slept.

Well, not entirely insect-free. There was one type of insect that was especially good at working its way into our tent, navigating around the gallons of Deep Woods Off I had sprayed over the whole area, finding some minuscule opening that had become untucked from my sleeping bag, squeezing through, and then immediately becoming too stupid to find its way back out.

The spider.

For most scouts this was not such a big deal, but if you’re afraid of spiders (I am), it’s the worst thing in the world, worse even than being forced to listen to Michael Bolton sing Tiny Tim songs, just to put things in perspective.

I would wake up earlier than the other scouts, so full of Mountain Dew from the previous night that my back teeth were bobbing like buoys. And every morning, opening my eyes, I’d see half a dozen spiders clinging precariously to the net above me, just itching for an excuse to fall down and eat me. Yes, eat me. Trust me.

It was horrible. Already afraid of spiders, the fear became terror. I would lie perfectly still for ten minutes or so, not even swallowing, my eyes riveted on the arachnids who stared back at me out of their unblinking eyes, justwaiting for me to move, their legs poised to jump, until, “AAAIIIEEEEEEEE! AAAGGGHH! AAAAAAH!” I would burst from the pressure and fling myself sideways, sleeping bag and all, out of the net and onto the hard wooden floor, where I was bombarded with assorted original insults from my tentmates, such as “You dork,” and “You’re a dork,” and the ever-popular, “Why are you such a dork?” while I sat embarrassed and shivering.

Not that spiders were the only insects that ever wandered into the tents. God help the poor little caterpillar trying to use a tent as a shortcut to his favorite oak. He was immediately surrounded by Boy Scouts equipped with bug spray and Bic lighters, eager to work on their “Caterpillar Conflagration” merit badges. I never partook in these Salem Bug Trials. I felt bad for them; sometimes I even tried to act as their court-appointed attorney:

“Why put this little caterpillar to death? He’s a credit to his community who has never harmed a soul. To execute him simply because he was wandering though your tent would be a travesty of justice. I would now like to call these three other caterpillars as character witnesses.”

“Hey guys! Three more to burn!”

Luckily for humans in jail, I decided against going into law.

Of course, most of the bugs hid out in the latrine, a wooden shack that stood a few hundred feet outside the campsite, and you can believe me when I tell you it was definitely a “latrine.” There were no slips of the tongue referring to the latrine as a “bathroom.”

You could always tell if you were within twenty yards of the latrine because it felt like someone had plucked your eyeballs from your head and was rubbing them with a salty lemon. If you were one of the few who made it inside the latrine (because you had a good pair of goggles and could survive in a methane-pure environment) you were confronted by a rectangular wooden box with holes in the top (a “three-holer”), strategically positioned over a six-foot-deep ditch. We were supposed to sit on these holes. Luckily, the Swiss Army Knife people had the foresight to equip their knives with tweezers for latrine-splinter removal, which is an activity you won’t find highlighted in any of your camp brochures. One trip to the latrine and you were raring to work on your Bowel Control merit badge, which I earned with a record-breaking six day streak, if I may toot my own horn (so to speak).

Actually, that’s about all I earned the whole week. I was much more interested in pottering around the woods than in the essential outdoor survival skills of weaving a stool or bending a circle of tin into a neckerchief slide. So I just sort of bobbled about all week, clomping around the woods, dunking my head into the lakes, and, of course, exploring the Wonderful World of the Wedgie at the hands of my fellow scouts (did you know Charles Darwin was the first to posit that the human rear has evolved its shape over the years to allow underwear to be yanked up it more easily? A man ahead of his times, truly).

I did try my hand at the black powder rifles, and if I ever get so desperate that I hold you up at gunpoint, feel free to chuckle and walk right by me, because there’s no way that I could possibly hit you. I could tie you to the front of a loaded cannon and light the fuse and the cannonball would somehow miss you and go sailing harmlessly off, landing safely in a big pile of sand somewhere.

My cousin and I arrived at the black powder range at 8 AM, only to learn that on that day the range would open an hour later than usual. So we waited. When the range finally opened, there were scouts who had been there before us who got to go first. “No problem,” I said to Brian. “We’re almost there.”

Wrong. The training session was unnecessarily epic-length; I seem to recall it beginning with the formation of the universe, followed by the history of earth up to that morning, then a long lecture on safety, then a longer lecture on loading the black powder rifle, then firing, then what not to do, then more safety. We listened to the entire thing for the scouts ahead of us, then they made us listen to it again when our turn came. We had waited for over two hours when we were finally given the chance to take our shot. And I do mean “shot.” We had one shot, one single chance to blow up one of the water-filled, plastic milk containers that rested a few hundred feet away on a big pile of dirt.

As a twelve-year-old who had never even touched a gun in his life but was familiar with the basics from such realistic cartoons as GI Joe (Go Joe!), the wait was excruciating, but the payoff, watching that milk container explode, KABLOOIE! and go flying off the dirt would be worth it.

I laid down on one of the sand-filled mats in the shooting row with about ten other scouts, including Brian, and carefully loaded the long rifle, sort of a Civil War-type gun, as per the instructor’s directions. “Place your ear plugs in your ears,” the instructor told us. I squeezed the ear protectors into small wads and stuffed them in my ears, where they expanded like miniature balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. The instructor shouted, “Okay, fire when ready.”

My target was right in front of me. I lifted the gun up—boy it was heavy, heavier than I thought—and started to aim, putting my finger on the trigger, and I saw a puff come out of the gun. It didn’t even move. Just a puff. NO! Did it go off? It went off! I wasn’t ready yet! I barely touched the trigger! I saw milk containers exploding all over the hill, including Brian’s, but not mine.

“Okay, that’s it! Lay your weapons down,” the instructor barked.

“But—”

“That’s it.” It was survival of the fittest out there in the woods, and a milk container was fitter than I.

So I didn’t earn that merit badge. Brian, on the other hand, earned dozens of merit badges and would later become an Eagle Scout, which is the equivalent of Greek God to the Scouting community. Brian and the other scouts actually had to buy sashes to keep all of their merit badges on. Not wanting to be a show-off, I kept my merit badge in my wallet, in a plastic photo holder.

But hey, I wasn’t just there to earn merit badges. I was also there to watch delinquents throw as many items that said KEEP AWAY FROM FLAME onto bonfires to see which would throw shrapnel the farthest, to wear green socks with red stripes, and to donate blood to a mosquito population in desperate need to double for the next week’s scouts.

I think three out of four is pretty good.

Sandy Beach Camp Song
(which I learned in just one week, thank you)

Pack up your duffel,
hustle up to Sandy,
smile, smile, smile (have a banana!)

Laughs are the style
and the skies are blue,
that’s the place for you! Hey!

What’s the use
of wandering?
There’s none can reach the beach!

SO! Hustle up your duffel up,
Your fun will double up
At Sandy BEEeeeeeEEEACH!

© 2005 Scott Teel