Day Camp

Week 8: National Drowning Prevention Day (7/25) 1295 Words

*Trigger warning: Death by drowning*

Day Camp

I was thirteen and far too young for the responsibility of watching a 10-year-old girl at a day camp for weeks. Each day, the Rockland Swim Club bus would pick us up. My best friends the triplets, Arlene, Dottie, and Lynn along with our friend Ida were waiting at the end of my block at 7 am sharp every weekday. We wore bathing suits under our shorts and blouses. Back in the 1950s, you wore blouses, not tee shirts. I wish we had tee shirts then because the blouses stuck to your body with the heat and humidity outside. There was a changing tent with lockers to put clothes and other things.

We were to be assigned two campers each to be accountable for. I was assigned one who was considered a special needs child. Having a real job at thirteen was exhilarating. I had done a little babysitting for young children. I had four siblings giving me experience to draw from on the job. My money was spent five thousand ways before I saw the cash at the end of camp.

The bus would pick up campers after us. I don’t remember their names. A set of identical twins rode the bus. They were much younger boys. I would guess about five. I thought they were too young to go to day camp on the bus without their parents. A couple of the counselors let them ride on their laps. They were endearing kids. They had big brown eyes and mops of long, thick black hair neatly cut with bangs. Dressed alike, they were always smiling and chattering.

About two weeks later, we boarded the bus. Our ordinary day would become extraordinary when only one boy got on at their stop. Thinking one was ill, we arrived at the club, someone took him to his group, and we thought nothing of it.

The director of the camp called us into a meeting. The missing twin had drowned over the past weekend. His parents were at the club and lost sight of the boys for just a few minutes. They found him at the bottom of the Olympic-sized pool.

I was very sad and troubled by this because I was grown up enough to know that the drowning should not have happened. The boys could not swim but were allowed to run around the pool we were told. It had been only three years since I was ten and nearly drowned in a swimming pool at a day camp. If not for the lifeguard on duty, I would not be here.

Drowning is like a nightmare in slow motion. I looked up from the bottom of the pool and saw the bright sun, blurry from looking through the water. Not being able to breathe is the scariest thing I have ever experienced. When the lifeguard rescued me, I remember his strong arms and quick swim with me to the side. He rolled me onto the concrete. He pressed on my stomach to expel water from my lungs. I think he had blue eyes and blonde hair. That is the way I remember him. I don’t even remember if I thanked him. I do remember what he said to me.


“Go to the shallow pool and never come to the diving pool again.”


They sent an adult with me back to the shallow water. They asked to see me swim. I swam but not good enough. She said I should never have gone to the diving pool to dive off the high dive. I said that I watched the other kids and they would jump or dive, hit the water, and bob right back up. I did not know there was skill involved to propel yourself to the surface.

It was so scary, that anytime I think about drowning to this day, I run out of breath and gulp in oxygen.

My ongoing message is to watch kids around water. I have lived near bodies of water in California. My first born took swimming lessons at age 3. My son got in the water and swam like a fish underwater without a lesson.

The children would have swimming in their daily schedule. There was a smaller pool around the corner from the huge one where the little boy drowned. Each counselor would stand watch at the water’s edge. My Mona was very heavy. She kept trying to float but her bottom kept pulling her down. She looked crestfallen as the swimmers around her floated with ease. I still was not a strong swimmer and was petrified I would have to jump in and save her. With the high humidity and standing with the sun beating down, I would heavily perspire. I would feel faint most of the day.

The best part of the day was making crafts. The girls made beaded bracelets which looked like the bracelets babies used to be given to identify them at birth. They were easy to make, complete with a solid clasp to put them securely around your wrist. I made one with the name Mona. When I was finished, she sheepishly handed me one with my name on it. She gave me a rare smile. The other girls ostracized the poor child. Today I would know how to handle it, but then I just felt such a strong sense of pity.

One nagging question I have is whether thirteen-year-olds are mature enough to supervise young kids. Physically, it is no problem. But, emotionally, it is a heavy burden. I don’ t know if my friends felt the same way. I am aware that children grow up much faster nowadays. There are often young teens who care for siblings while both parents work. I question whether they should have a responsibility to supervise young kids. Just having one to care for wore me out. She was an albino. Her shifting eyes were distracting and her very white skin was almost transparent. I treated her as I would want to be treated.

On parent’s day, the last day of camp, each person’s parent or parents would be introduced to us by their child. Mona’s mom was there alone. She shared that Mona talked about me all the time and everything was positive. She was the first single parent I knew. I never checked, but I think she had a scholarship to attend. Her mother handed me an envelop which had a thank you note. She wrote in it and Mona put a thank you message in there as well. There were two one dollar bills. I learned that day that traditionally parents gave the counselors a tip. I was very excited. My friends, however, received ten and twenty dollar bills. They asked me what I got and I said a couple of dollars and a special thank you note.

I think I became jealous. I noticed one thing from day one. My friends were unusually, for them, perky and acted phony. They put on what I viewed as an act of being overly excited to have their charges and thought each was the cat’s meow. Lynn told me at the end that they knew they were working more for tips than the pitiful amount of money we received. If I remember correctly, my paycheck was $17.50 for three weeks. It was reported to the IRS and remains in my complete income record.

At the end of camp, the staff made a big deal about our work. We were the best counselors they ever had. It made me feel good. The work experience set in place my future demeanor in every place I worked. Empathy and kindness were my mantras. I know of a couple of other drowning victims in my lifetime. I know how awful it is. It is a horrible way to die.