One might think a job like this might get routine and boring as the summer wears on. Some days start out like they might be just that, but I have yet to see one to completion. Last week I was in my office when a camper entered and explained that while he was sailing, he saw a boat sink, leaving the passengers stranded on the water. It went against my intuition to believe him, but I didn’t waste any time arguing or digging for details. I ran down to the waterfront and the length of the dock, grabbed the binoculars from the lifeguards and zeroed in on five swimmers bobbing in the waves a quarter mile away.
I radioed for another staff member, lowered the pontoon, and within a minute we were speeding their way. As we approached, we lowered the ladder and one by one scooped each dripping body onto the deck of the boat. Around us floated a pair of sandals, a dry box, and a few other items identifying the spot where the ship went down. Exhausted, and still shook up from the wreck, the five were uninjured and thankful for the rescue.
Somehow one of them rescued the captain’s chair and thought it important enough to hang onto. The rest of the boat lay at least 20 feet down, out of sight. They didn’t even know how the wreck occurred. It was an old boat and likely they were traveling too fast for the wave conditions. In its final moments the boat’s nose dipped down and didn’t come back up.
Back on shore they called their parents who were staying at a nearby resort. I have never done it myself, but I imagine it a hard phone call to make to tell your dad you sank his boat. I gave them a ride back to a resort across the lake. We were greeted on the dock by a tearful, but grateful, mother, not sure if she should be relieved or angry. After politely refusing any form of payment, I finally gave in and accepted a few gallons of gas.
There are 50-60 cabins on the island. Most of the cabins sit on National Forest leases and have been in the same family since the settling of the island in the early 1900’s. To celebrate the 90th birthday of an old wooden boat that originally shuttled many of the island’s first residents back and forth, The Roamer, a party was thrown on the south shore. I felt like a fish out of water mingling with the old rich people in a scene better fit for a movie. Pictures, music, cake, a keg, and a lot of smiling people crowded the beach as kids played in the water and others admired the old wooden boats gathered for the occasion.
One of the island’s most notable inhabitants passed away this past winter. John Mosedale was his name. It might not sound familiar, but if you have ever watched the CBS evening news with Dan Rather or Walter Cronkite, you’re familiar with his work. He was one of the primary writers for the show for decades. Each summer his family would come to the island and he would join them for a couple weeks at a time while he could sneak away from New York.
Other island residents come from the Twin Cities, Iowa, and even further reaches of the country as kids and grandkids have dispersed. The camp cook showed me around and introduced me to a dozen folks or so before we returned to the familiarity of our side of the island.
My efforts to clean this place are finally starting to reap dividends. A garbage can full of old copper wire and pipefittings netted camp $143. The true payoff will be the assessment given by the health inspector, due to arrive any day now.
Being the camp director requires a little bit of law enforcement. Each week we host at least a few volunteers, many of which are young and aspiring staff members and under the age of 21. I have made great efforts to make clear the expectations but last week two young gentlemen decided to push the limits. It was during a maintenance project in the volunteer bunkhouse that I opened the fridge to find a twelve pack of beer and a couple of bottles of liquor. I replaced the alcohol with a note that read, “I have it. If you want it back, come see me.”
I didn’t expect any response from the note, and so was taken aback when these two young men approached me later that day. They confessed the alcohol was theirs not out of guilt, but expecting to get it returned to them. This new generation gives “entitlement” a new meaning. I told them they were already lucky I didn’t buy them a bus ticket home.
After being gone from SE Minnesota for three months I’ve started to miss the agriculture that defines home. Up here it’s nothing but pine trees and scrub brush in a “wasteland” of bogs, swamps, and forests. Soon enough, however, I’ll find myself back amidst the corn and the hay. Until then, it’s off to the lake for a cool retreat from this humid air.
Happy Trails,
Greg
