Back at camp: I stood on the dock and watched the sailboats flying spinnakers -- those large, colorful, balloon-like sails -- and thought about my time here. (A Place to Share).

Camp was a great summer job, but as an adult it seemed smaller, less significant. Had we been just "glorified babysitters?"

I looked back at the water. Flying spinnakers requires fairly advanced sailing skill, and only the older, experienced campers were allowed to fly them. I recalled, however, one junior sailor determined to make camp history. Short, pudgy, and redheaded, Doran begged me every day to fly a spinnaker. "Come on," he bellowed in a voice often hoarse from constantly shouting with excitement.

He was a good sailor, but he was only seven. Finally, I relented. He gave high fives to the other seven-year-olds in the cabin group. As I picked up a spinnaker from the boat shed, the sailing director looked at me. "Don't you have the little guys today?" he asked, raising an eyebrow Apparently, junior campers had never flown spinnakers before.

Setting a spinnaker involves keeping the boat steady with the wind behind while the spinnaker sail is raised. This is no small feat for young campers whose straight line most often resembles the bobbing and weaving of a drunken sailor. If the boat is not kept straight, the long horizontal sail pole known as the boom will come crashing across the boat. The spinnaker will collapse into the water and be ripped on the large metal dagger-boards under the boat, The tall pole known as the mast could snap or the boat might flip. I explained this to my young, five-man crew, believing they would recant their desire for a spinnaker run. I asked for a volunteer to steer during the run. Silence. Then a hoarse voice broke in -- Doran.

The wind was perfect, and I worked the boat into position. Then I turned the tiller over to Doran. "Keep it straight," I said. I moved to the front of the boat, and the other campers and I pulled the various lines necessary to raise the spinnaker. The wind filled it like a balloon, and the crew cheered. Doran, excited by the moment, began drifting off course. I could see the wooden boom wavering and dove from the front of the boat into the cockpit. I tripped on a line and landed at Doran's feet just as he was guiding the boat back on course, "Don't get so excited," he said smiling.

Back at the dock, Doran and the other crewmen all talked at the same time. The older campers looked baffled. The sailing director shook his head and smiled.

As I stood on the dock, I laughed at this memory and then walked to the dining hall. Phil, a director at the camp, pointed one of the counselors in my direction. He towered over me and shook my hand with the strength of an athlete. "I'm Doran," he said. "Do you remember me?" Little, chubby, red-haired Doran had transformed into an Ivy League student athlete. The red hair had turned auburn, and the chubbiness had turned to muscle.

Doran's success was built on many foundations, but a significant part of his confidence and spirit came from camp and experiences like our voyage. Doran began developing leadership abilities even at age seven. Camp uniquely provides a setting with opportunities for teamwork and self-challenge. Now, as a counselor, Doran was passing on what he had learned.

When Doran shook my hand, I realized camp is far more than a summer job and counselors are much more than babysitters. The joys of camp are literally passed down, generation to generation. I hoped Doran would someday have the chance to happen upon one of his young campers grown. Such an experience erases any doubt about whether or not camp makes a difference.

Matthew J. Miller is a federal law enforcement officer who lives and works in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He grew up attending summer camp, and later worked as a counselor, waterfront director, and program director at camp.