It’s August and the drive to Camp Wabasso is long and languid. This marks the first time my daughter will be on her own. I’ve assured her she’s about to have an adventure, an experience – one she won’t forget. It’s a big step for her.
We drive north on backroads into a land increasingly devoid of suburban normalcy and comfort. We pass forests and fields, farm stands and lakes. This is the country. Her home is hours behind us now.
She sits in the passenger seat and silently fiddles with the radio. “When will be there?” she asks. I tap my phone again – “Your destination is in thirty-two miles.” Soon.
A teenage girl waving a flag directs me down a dirt road. “Welcome to Camp Wabasso!” she chirps. I pull the car into a grassy lot. My passenger chews her fingernail and stares out the window with wide eyes. She looks so little. “Time to go sweetie.”
Clusters of camp counselors – looking like children themselves – mill about in the shade of tall pine trees directing incoming campers to the sign-in tables. We fall into line with other families dropping off their daughters.
She holds my hand tight and furtively watches the other girls waiting in line. I tell her a funny story about the boy who lost his pants at Camp Elm Bank. When it’s our turn, a pair of cheerful older women wearing “Camp Staff” t-shirts review the paperwork. “My daughter wants to know how many girls have you lost this year?” The staffers laugh and assure us both she’ll be in good hands.
After a lice check at the nurse’s station, we head to her cabin – a plywood shack with a wooden sign with the word “Birches” nailed above the door “Be brave” I whisper. She falls in behind me as I push the door open and walk in.
Three other girls have already taken the best cots. One of them talks and talks. The other two mostly stare as I unpack the suitcase and make the bed. Apparently their parents have already left. I can feel my daughter sizing them up and making initial judgements. On the car ride up I stressed giving everyone a chance “You never know. One of them could turn out to be your BFF.” I can tell there will be no BFFs in this group.
Soon …
“Let’s walk.” We leave her bunk-mates behind and explore the camp together. Her grip on my hand is tighter. The clock ticks as I lead her around. Here are the bathrooms, and here’s the kitchen and the art center, and there’s the path to the lake down the hill. In a shady spot under the trees a group of counselors and some new campers sit at picnic tables making name tags. One of them calls over “Come join us.” She’s got a British accent.
“Daddy, don’t leave yet.” She pleads. We walk to a private spot and she sits on my lap and holds me tight and cries. The shadows on the ground grow a little longer. This place smells like pine needles and forest and summer heat.
It’s time. I hug her tight and she wipes tears from her eyes. I give her some last minute advice “Tonight will be hard. Tomorrow will be too, and maybe the next day, but things will get better. I promise.” All things considered, who am I to give that advice?
Before we part I ask a favor, when we turn to leave don’t look back. “It’ll be easier that way [for both of us].” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but it seems like the right thing to say. I kiss her goodbye and she walks away. I turn and head to the car. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.
Of course, my love for her is stronger than my will and when I turn around – breaking my promise to myself and to her – she’s already looking back.
I wonder who looks more lonely and distraught?
***
–POST SCRIPT —
Weeks later my little girl returns brimming with excitement and stories about her adventures – horse riding and kitchen duty and camp songs around the fire and swimming and….
In a quiet moment she thanks me for the daily letters. Everyday I’d send off a long rambling tome – woven with stories, reports, life lessons, themes and messages meant to be part distraction, part affirmation and part reinforcing my love for her. What was meant to be private was read with relish to her home-sick cabin mates. “The other girls were so jealous.” she brags.
She is happy to be home and I’m happy she’s back. Two weeks older, but a bigger step toward maturity than she realizes. I celebrate that … and in a way I also fear it.