A Ride to Breakfast.

Walking down the aisle of dirt and leaves, gingerly stepping over protruding roots and hoping that my high heels didn't catch on the ruts in the ground, I couldn't help but smile. I had just spent the past three hours standing, due to a fear that resting on the rough wooden benches that were the only seating would mark my white dress. Standing was not easy; the ground of the outdoor theater sloped, and myriad hazards lay under foot - rocks, sticks, and pinecones were scattered haphazardly about the area. It was windy, and my muscles seemed to have frozen stiff in the chilly breeze and night air. My ankles complained loudly of the position my shoes forced them to take. I no longer had possession of my voice; it had left me sometime ago, exhausted by my incessant screaming and cheering.

But now as I moved down the lumpy pathway, I heard a tiny group of eleven-year-old girls add their voices to the cheers from the back row where my peers stood. And despite my aching feet, I was happier, more excited than I'd ever been. That night was the consummation of years of effort and hard work; yet looking back, I have to say that I had never had as much fun in my whole life. The Junior Counselor Program at Cape Cod Sea Camp has been an irreplaceable part of my life for three years, though the final year proved by far the most rewarding.

"Good Morning, Kaitlin"

Waking up this morning, as I have done nearly every morning since leaving camp, I tilt my head and listen expectantly for the tiny voices greeting me, "Hi Kaitlin." Now I share a room with only my sister, who is no more a morning person than I. But back in that cramped grayish-blue cabin, there were fourteen little people who never let rain nor thunder nor my day off prevent them from delivering their daybreak salutations.

As the first notes of reveille sounded throughout the camp, the familiar sounds of 'the "morning stampede" would shake the cabin. The girls who had been fidgeting in their beds, no doubt, for hours before the seven o'clock call, flew from their bunks as soon as that untimely tune indicated that they were free to get up. I rolled out of my cot and staggered out into the chaos of the camper half of the cabin, summoning my best enthusiastic morning voice and trying to rouse the stragglers from their beds in what was probably a less than convincing tone. Then came the contest: who gets to ride Kaitlin to breakfast today? Although most of the other counselors had managed to escape the piggy-back dilemma, I usually ended up with someone clinging to my shoulders and shouting for inc to "go faster!" On the less bleary-eyed days. I would often humor the request and gallop my way to the cafeteria.

Following the morning routine, I would report to the boathouse with a mission: to spread my passion for sailing to the younger generation, without losing anyone overboard. I could always smell the salt breeze well before I crested the dunes leading to the beach. This place was one I would often return to later in the evening, to race in a sunset regatta or to watch the waves play tag with the moon's silvery shadows and the boats that gently rocked on their moorings.

But during the day, I became a teacher. Sometimes by example, and sometimes by misexample, I introduced my novices to the most romantic sport on earth: the sea. I recall one particular occasion that I, unaware of the 25-knot wind speed, elected not to change out of my jean shorts before sailing class. The campers took immense delight in the fact that one of their counselors had made a mistake. Although the sharply heeling sailboat scared the less-experienced crew, I found I could distract them by loudly teasing myself for my lack of foresight and affecting tragic groans each time a fresh wave leapt over the bow to further soak my shorts. The outfit reeked of salt water for the rest of the summer, but I think at least one of the campers signed up for sailing the next week.

Camp's Special Bond

Now summer has ended; I have graduated from the program. I no longer spend the evenings with my fellow junior counselors, swapping stories about the funny things "our" children did or said that day. Although our letters are sporadic and our winter lives busy, we know that we'll all return the next year as fill counselors. Because there is still nothing else in the world that compares to waking up at 7 A.M. on a Saturday to an insistent voice and an earnest face that just wants transportation to breakfast.

Kaitlin Mara is a recent graduate of Cape Cod Sea Camp's Junior Counselor Program.

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