1997
My sandals squeaked in the soft sand as I made my way across the beach toward the water-skiing cove. Water-skiing was my favorite activity at the Maine sleepaway camp I attended as a camper and a counselor for ten summers. As a child, I raced across the beach to be the first to pick out skis and a lifejacket. As a nineteen-year-old counselor charged with driving the ski boat, I walked quickly and purposefully, knowing I had less than an hour to safely pull five campers around our area of the lake. I passed the canoeing, swimming, and sailing areas, walking about an eighth of a mile to the end of the sandy shore. A group of campers was already there, squabbling over equipment. When they saw me coming, they dropped the skis in the sand, shouting, “Can I go first? Can I go first?”
“You ladies work out the order while I get the boat,” I instructed. “And remember…”
“…Not even your pinkie toe in the water until another counselor gets here,” they chorused.
The camp’s Boston Whaler, already worn and loved when I’d learned to ski behind it at age eleven, was moored at a dock 150 yards offshore. To get to it, I had to walk along a path in the woods that ran perpendicular to the shore. The water-skiing area marked a distinct line between the sunny, sandy beach and the shaded woods.
I never wore bug spray at camp. I spent all my time on or in the lake, so I thought I was immune to the bugs that hovered around land activities. The only insects I worried about were mosquitoes, and they left with the humidity at the beginning of the summer. I was only concerned with dangers I could see. Besides minor scratches and the occasional stubbed toe, I didn’t think about the implications of walking the ski boat path several times a day. It didn’t occur to me that the woods were a thick nesting ground for animals and the bugs they host.
After a few minutes walking through brush and leaves that tickled my legs, I reached the dock. My sandals slapped against the faded boards, and I could hear the water lapping gently underneath. I waved at the campers back on shore, then knelt to undo the cleat knot that tied the boat to the dock. I unwound the faded yellow rope, twisting it around my hand as I leapt from the dock to the boat’s bow. I walked to the stern to check the gas tanks. Satisfied, I sat down on the old wooden bench behind the steering wheel and turned the key. The boat roared to life. I heard the familiar beep-beep that meant everything was in working order.
“That’s the sound I like to hear!” I said as I put the throttle in reverse and carefully maneuvered the boat away from the dock, turning toward the wider part of the lake to make a couple test runs. I revved the boat as if I were pulling a skier, a motion I could have done in my sleep. I loved that time alone in the boat, the wind whipping through my ponytail as I gunned the engine, the sun warming my face. As I slowed the boat to a stop, I closed my eyes for just a second, relishing the moment of stillness. I was totally in my element, tanned and healthy, filled with energy and the invincibility of youth.
As I opened my eyes and turned the boat, I happened to glance down at my right arm as it guided the steering wheel. Splattered across my forearm was a blotchy red rash. I stopped the boat and peered closer. The rash was a series of red dots that ran from my wrist halfway to my elbow. Past my outstretched arm, I could see the campers on shore, jumping up and down and waving to me to come get them already. I restarted the boat, deciding to focus on the task at hand and show the rash to the camp nurse later.
“Does it itch?” she asked when I presented it to her at lunch time.
“No.”
The nurse that summer was from England, an R.N. who had treated patients on two continents. She was well-versed in the basic first aid issues that often arose at camp, but not aware of problems more endemic to the area, which at the time weren’t high on anyone’s radar. She ran her fingers over the rash. “It’s not raised or anything. Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Well then, I wouldn’t worry about it. We’re at camp. It’s probably from your sleeping bag or something. Let’s just watch it for a few days and see what happens.”
A few days later the rash faded. I didn’t give it another thought.