Summer Camp
Scott Kraverath
©
Copyright 2026 by Scott Kraverath
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I’d
seen him fall, that was true, from the big green rusty steel
fifty-gallon drum-turned trash can that we were all taking turns
staying atop while rolling it under our feet like Canadian
lumberjacks. That he had been injured, though, I didn’t notice.
He wasn’t a popular kid, to be sure, but even if he were I’m
still not convinced that I would have realized that anything was out
of the ordinary. Kids fall all the time; it is a fact of life, a
circumstance of our early existence when joints are made of rubber
and our bones of green, flexible wood. A two-foot fall, and he got up
and slunk away … who’s up next? So, I was immediately
confused later in the day when his father, our scoutmaster, roughly
grabbed me by my shoulder and spun me around. His voice wavering with
rage, he accused me of pushing him, his son, off the can, which
evidently had caused a large cut on his leg. His angry words entered
me and stuck there, as I was not yet capable of deflecting or of
routing them into a place from which to form a reply. I was, frankly,
years away from that ability. The scoutmaster’s anger engulfed
me, the words piling up in my uncomprehending mind and fusing my body
in space and my feet firmly to the ground. How long it lasted, I
cannot say, only that I grew scared, confused, and, I’m fairly
sure, started crying. I couldn’t form words, but little matter,
as his manner indicated that he was sure of my guilt, and there was
nothing I could say in my own defense that wouldn’t be taken by
him as a lie. An adult in charge, screaming at a child, especially an
innocent one, might as well be whipping, punching, or cutting but,
even worse in a sense, as the harm the piercing words yield leaves no
visible scars but also never fully heals.
He
vaporized, the scoutmaster, his tirade over and I was a wreck. I
found myself floating over and watching me, having split in two to
both absorb and witness his rage – split so, I presume, that
perhaps half of me might plot an escape if the violence housed in the
words had ratcheted into something else. I reckon I could
have
run during the harangue, but something held me in place, as if the
indignity needed to be endured … swallowed whole, before any
attempt at understanding or reconciliation could begin. It was some
ancient congenital notion languishing in my mind, perhaps, or, more
probably, learned by watching my father stoically take so many
drunken broadsides from my mother over the years. All I knew was that
when it was over, I had to escape and hide my trembling, my crying,
my fear ... and my sudden and unexpected hatred of this man.
I
found myself alone.
Though
several others had witnessed the whole affair, no one came to my
defense; no one dared. I know now that this was one of my earliest
immersions into that incredulous mental chaos which sometimes springs
unexpectedly from the clear blue.
Mind
and body in a state of flux, I began aimlessly walking out of our
camp, toward the lake near the center of the sprawling Boy Scout
reservation. I started walking toward the lake, but I had no real
destination in mind. Somewhere halfway to nowhere I saw it, subtly
bent blades of grass all oriented at the same angle indicating a very
faint trail. My mind needed it, frankly manifested it; something to
assuage the indignity of the attack: some order, some purpose …
a signal. It was something to focus on, something to begin righting
my world. I followed it upslope out of our camp, and then down toward
the lake and the long earthen dam that held back the reservoir. I
followed the bent grass for a long time. It occurs to me now that a
child’s perception of time is like saltwater taffy: colorful,
sticky, and infinitely malleable. I recall ever so slowly pacing
behind the vaguest disruption in the grass, alone with my spiraling
thoughts and unaware of how incidents like this would, only upon
reflection many years later, help shape my world view and actually
influence the course of my life – especially my sense of right
and wrong. And so, I followed the barest hint of a trail …
bent blade of grass by bent blade of grass.
Halfway
across the long dam the turf became thicker, the trail now sometimes
forming ill-defined tunnels but still beckoning me onward. And so, I
followed, and the amount of time spent in the pursuit became
irrelevant. Bent grass, arch of grass, tunnel of grass. And then,
suddenly, no trail at all. I scanned ahead, but it was gone. And so,
I circled back and re-found the trail, and in the last of the grass
tunnels … there it was.
There
are those for whom an intact sand dollar discovered on a vacant beach
thrills, or for whom the perfect pair of shoes lurking on a rack does
the same … or certain sports cars or rocks, or rare books. We
all, at least most of us, I hope at least, have our thing, that
entity or object that simply and profoundly delights. I am sad for
those who don’t have a variety of stuffs that, upon discovery
following a dedicated search or, even better, found randomly, makes
them feel joy deep within their soul. These are the simple things
that make life so much sweeter. For me it is wild things, reptiles in
particular, that does the trick. I was already, at the ripe age of
eleven, deeply committed to snakes and their pursuit. Later in life,
reptiles in general became my thing, part of my identity. I was
hoping, but was fairly sure that I wasn’t following a snake
that day. And, since lizards are rare to nonexistent in northern
Ohio, they remained beyond my comprehension. And turtles, the
pond-dwelling variety at least, mean getting up close and personal
normally involves getting very wet. But here, in a grass channel,
alone, and surrounded by a bright green forest and a deep blue lake,
following a young mind’s quest for any answer as to why angry
words and incrimination can tear so mightily at one’s very
being … was the closest thing to a precious healing jewel I
could have ever hoped for. I reached in and carefully pulled it out –
gorgeous yellow bands and speckles with beaded legs over a chocolate
brown and black shell, eyes bright red and blinking at me – an
eastern box turtle. A more perfect creature doesn’t walk our
earth.
I’m
sure that I spent an hour or more there, watching it, observing as it
marched around me. I stared into its mystical crimson eyes. And so, I
spoke to it, told it my story, and it blinked back at me, indicating
that everything was going to be ok and not to worry. That little
turtle re-aligned my world, firmed my resolve, and fused me back
together again.
A
previous me would have carried it back to camp, to show it off as a
prize. But not this one, not this time at least. No, this particular
turtle had saved me, and it had somewhere to go, a destination that I
was keeping it from … an appointment that I was interrupting.
Eventually I put it back into its grassy tunnel and headed back the
way I had come.
Later
that night, the scoutmaster found me. His visage diminished; his rage
evaporated … he was half the size as before. He apologized,
having discovered through his own son that I was innocent. Though I
have no doubt it was genuine, his apology found no purchase in me.
For good or for bad I had already hardened that avenue and placed one
foundation stone in a protective barrier that would eventually grow
tall and strong within my mind.
Besides,
I was already mostly healed already thanks to that little box turtle
… but, even so almost half a century later … not fully.
Scott
Kraverath, is a retired US Naval Officer and a
former Professor of Naval Science at Vanderbilt University in
Nashville, TN. He was also the senior US Navy Commander for Spain and
Portugal (Commander of the Navy Base we share with the
Spanish)
and has two Master's degrees with theses dealing with Redefining
National Security to include Environmental Degradation (Naval
Postgraduate School, Monterey, CA) and follow-up work at the Naval
War College in Newport, RI. He was also an Intern/correspondence and
speech writer for the US Secretary of Defense and two Navy Admirals.
He has, however, never published anything …. but hoping to
change that someday.
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