I can remember that day vividly. It was an unseasonably mild Saturday in June of 1987. Sitting in the backseat of my father’s conversion van as we roared through the peaks and valleys of the Ozark Mountains. I was excited, focused, and petrified all at once. Seven miles away from my first experience at a religiously-sanctioned summer camp. Will my cabin be too humid at night? What kind of rations will be provided at chow time? Will any girls even talk to me? These are the usual questions that race through a young lad’s mind on his way to his first overnight adventure away from home.
But my situation was different.
Approximately three months earlier I had received a phone call at home. I remember it was late in the evening because we had just finished eating dinner and were gathering in front of the television to watch Falcon Crest. My parents felt it strange for a 10-year-old to receive a phone call so late in the evening. And I agreed. But I took the call.
“Can you find a safe room to talk in private?” the deep male voice asked on the other end. “Um, okay” I replied. Crouched inside the kitchen pantry with the phone up to my ear, I listened. The man went on to introduce himself as Colt “Bruce” McMasterson, a senior-level agent with the Bureau Of Alcohol, Tobacco, & Firearms.
I was being recruited. My country needed me. I have no idea to this day how they found me. I’m thinking it was probably that subscription for the Sweet Pickles book series I placed through school. Regardless, my name was pulled from the hat. I was drafted.
“We need you to go undercover and infiltrate the Blessed Rock Christian Bible Summer Camp. We have reason to believe they are conducting domestic terrorism training operations within their compound. The only way we can determine for sure is to put a man on the inside to gather intelligence. That’s why we need you.”
“Uhhh.” I replied.
“You will be deployed in June. We’ll fax you the dossier in the meantime.”
“Fax? What the hell is a fax?” I stammered.
“Good point. Okay we’ll mail it to you instead.” Bruce barked.
So, flash-forward back to that June day. I wave goodbye to my parents and immediately start prepping myself for the mission of a lifetime. The week I spent at the summer camp is pretty much a blur. The constant paranoia of being “outed” as spy created a steady flow of adrenaline that pretty much wiped out my memory. But thankfully my notes from which I compiled my report are still intact. I found them in a box up in my Mom’s attic along with my lone soccer trophy (Most Punctual Player).
Here’s the breakdown:
Day One: making friends within the “Buckaroos” cabin isn’t going to be easy. Most of the other kids are friendly, but I feel a power struggle building under the surface. Some kid’s mom packed him a few boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups. He’s going to be hard to take down. My bunk smells like vanilla milkshake and fart.
Day Two: my first real day of activity observation and the leaders wasted no time in jumping right into the heavy stuff. Two full hours on the archery range. There is definitely a decent level of talent here. One scrawny kid was in tears claiming that he wasn’t strong enough to pull the string back on the bow. But I think he’s hiding something.
Day Three: horseback riding. I find strange some of the names of these horses: “Buttercup”, “Thunder”, “Falwell”, “Crossburn”, and “Incest.”
Day Four: during our regular post-dinner assembly, the camp leaders instruct us to repeat and series a melodic chants over and over again. A form of brainwashing no doubt. I’m fairly certain that John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt is someone they want us to kill.
Day Five: marksmanship. Now they are just being brazen about their intentions. The talent level again is off the charts. I’m fairly certain the Pope is going to be assassinated by barrage of pellet fire.
Day Six: I had wicked diarrhea today. Never left cabin. Nothing to report.
Day Seven: it rained today, so the entire camp participated in arts & crafts … or Bomb-making 101, as I like to call it. Like a factory full of sweatshop workers we were instructed on the multiple uses for sharp objects and chemical adhesives.
Day Eight: my last full day of activities before camp ends. Those of us who have earned the trust of the leaders were trained in a most lucrative skill. Bumper boats. I’m pretty sure this is how the world is going to end. For two solid hours we learned how to operate and effectively ram each other with motorized inner tubes. The bumper boats created potential lethal killing machines in all of us. It’s possible these devices will be dispersed throughout the globe strapped with explosives with the goal of destroying anything in their path. I fear for the safety of our sailors.
The next morning my parents arrived to pick me up. I looked back over my shoulder as we departed the camp. I was relieved that my mission was over and that I somehow survived. I was proud of my patriotism, and scared for the future.
I never did figure out what caused that diarrhea.
-Jonesy
