Waterski Camp

When I was a kid, maybe 11 or 12, my parents would send me to water-skiing camp during the summer. We lived in Folsom, but the CSUS Aquaitic Center was in Rancho Cordova about 10 minutes away. Once they dropped me off at the meeting place, they would load us all up and drive us back to Folsom to the lake. From the boat launch, we'd go dock at a camp about 10 minutes away, set up individual camps on the beach, and sit and wait our turn. Throughout the 6 hour day, each kid (aged 10-17) would get at least two 15 minute water-skiing lessons and when it was all over, we were required to swim out to the boats to make sure we weren't bringing dirt and sand into the boat. We stopped at an ice cream stand on the way back to the center called Big Dip, which was approximately 2 minutes from my house, then pulled up at the center all the way back in Rancho Cordova and waited for our parents to pick us up for the day.

I loved water-skiing, but I never understood why I had to do it at a camp. I didn't need to go every fucking day. I could have gone once a Sunday as we always did. My parents had a boat and my brother was really good. We all were, actually. Even me with my weight problem could scale buoys at 11 years old on a single ski. I had no interest in being a competitive skiier, as there were no musical numbers.

It was insanely expensive to go to this camp. And we had to bring our own lunch. My mom sent me with a medium ice chest daily, and imagine swimming that back to the boat and a waterproof backpack, so my grubby little paws didn't fuck up some drunk college ski instructors carelessly-placed ray-bans.

And everyone hated me. At first they just ignored me there. The boys all wanted to be like the counselors, who listened to Ozzy Osborne, which I had just seen on 60 Minutes as having been the musical choice of young Cocaine users. They all called each other "Brah" which I found dumb, and a few of them made fun of how my voice hadn't changed yet (It still hasn't).

The girls were busy doing their own thing, reading Teen Beat with The new Kids On The Block on the cover. I so wanted to join them, tell them that I thought Jordan was far superior to Joey, and far less religious publicly which made him more marketable on a long-term basis but I saw how the girls were to each other. The smart ones were dead meat, because they were also the more sensitive, and no girl loved more than to peck down another lady with faster-developing breasts than to call attention to how lame her conversations were.

But one day I said something funny to a camp counselor, who told everyone else at the camp how funny I was. My joke must have been too adult, because the other kids just stared as she made me repeat it. A few boys called me "Shawna." The girls were bored. I went back to my little spot on the island, tended to my ice chest.

1 Pack Ho-Ho's
1 Twinkie
1 Turkey sandwich on white bread
1 Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
1 small bag Doritos Nacho Cheese
1 Small bag Fritos
1 Root Beer
1 Bottled Water
1 Apple

My friend was the food at water ski camp. After finishing my entire day of feasting on the Folsom Lake, staring at the water and hoping I'd finally think of the funny line that would be dumb enough to make a child laugh, and make friends with just one Brah or Brah-ette, I'd order a big dip ice cream cone. It had vanilla soft-serve ice cream on a standard cone, covered in hardened chocolate. I'd come home, and eat dinner.

I went out last night, and I was by myself at the Abbey. It's one of my all-time favorite gay bars. I love the design. I love the sweet martinis. I love the way the bartenders look you in the eye, the way the camp counselors never did. I was drinking my favorite beverage there, looking around the sea of other campers. I saw the teen-beaters in the form of adult men, practically in their bathing suits, and I got sad. I wanted my ice-chest, but I settled for app-ing on my iPhone and forcing myself to be out of the house.