People Call Me Crazy

    I was nervous the moment I stepped off the bus at Camp Lakewood. The air was hot—but I was filled with icy cold terror.

    Mom and Dad had signed me up for Camp Lakewood even though it was the last place I wanted to spend my summer. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the outdoors. It’s just that I hated water. And Camp Lakewood was nothing but water. Not only was the camp next to a lake, but there was also a river running through it. All the activities seemed to be swimming or waterskiing or sailing. 

    Which is why—on the third day of camp—I found myself on a hike. It was on dry land, and that was all I cared about.

    About 20 of us campers started out in the afternoon. Right away we came to a bridge over the river. Before crossing, our counselor, Bobby, pointed down at the water. “Remember, the river is off-limits without a counselor,” he said. “The current is surprisingly strong.”

    I hung back, watching the others cross the bridge. 

    “Thatcher?” This guy Richie from my cabin had turned around. “Come on,” he said, walking back toward me. I focused on the trees up ahead as we walked over the bridge together. I felt like I was going to throw up with every step.

    As the day went on, Richie and I found ourselves falling behind the others. “Hold up,” Richie said finally—his face watermelon red from the exertion. He pulled out his water bottle and took a drink. 

    “So what was up with you and the bridge?” Richie asked after a few moments. He sat down on a rock to take a rest.

    I shrugged. “It’s just . . . I used to love the water. But then . . .”  

    “Then what?” he asked.

    I took a deep breath. “A few summers ago, my older brother’s friends dared me to swim underneath this floating raft. It was dark, and I’d never done it before. I got tangled up in the anchor chain underwater and kind of freaked out. My older brother had to jump in and save me.”

    Richie nodded in a way that made me feel like maybe I wasn’t such a loser.

    “After that, I just couldn’t go in the water anymore. Honestly, I think my parents picked Camp Lakewood to help me get over it.”

    Suddenly, Richie jumped up. “Where’s the group?”

    I looked up the path. We must have lost track of time, because everyone was gone. “They can’t be that far,” I said. We hurried ahead until we came to a fork in the trail. 

    Richie and I looked at each other. “I think the ground looks more trampled to the right,” I said. Richie nodded, and we headed that way. Minutes went by. Or was it hours? Everything looked the same—the bushes, the trees, the bends in the trail.

    “I think we picked the wrong direction,” Richie said. 

    So we turned around and went back, until we came to another fork—a different one. Neither of us remembered seeing it before. We stood there, frustrated and confused.

    “I think we need to keep going left to retrace our steps,” I said. 

    “You were wrong the last time,” Richie snapped. Then he pulled out his water bottle only to find that it was empty.

    Richie and I hadn’t known each other long enough to trust each other yet. And neither one of us was familiar with the camp or the woods. Panic started to set in. 

    “Listen!” Richie shouted. “Do you hear that? It’s the river!” He sped down a steep hill, and I followed slowly. By the time I caught up, he was studying the water. 

    “All we have to do is cross it!” Richie shouted over the river’s roar. “But swimming probably isn’t a great idea. Remember what Bobby said about the current?” he added, earning buddy points in my mind. 

    I was about to suggest getting back on the trail, but it was starting to get dark. I knew we only had a little daylight left before we’d be stuck in the woods overnight.

    Suddenly, Richie started yelling. “Look! Look! Look!” He pointed upstream. A fallen tree reached across the river, about six feet above the water. “We can walk on that,” he said. That’s when Richie lost every buddy point he ever had with me. 

    “Um, can’t we just keep following the river until we find the bridge we crossed before?” I suggested.

    Richie either didn’t hear me or ignored me. Then he hopped up onto the fallen tree and started to walk across.

    My heart pounded as I watched him. Richie took each step slowly, with his eyes on his feet. At the halfway point, he looked back at me and flashed a thumbs-up. 

    And that’s when he slipped.

    I watched him fall into the river like it was in slow motion. Then the current quickly swept him a few feet downstream. He was stopped when his shirt got caught on a low-hanging branch. The water beat at him relentlessly, filling his mouth.

    “Richie!” I yelled. “Take off the shirt and kick to the shore. You’re only a few feet away!” But he couldn’t hear me over the sound of the water. If he couldn’t get free soon, the current would suck him under.

    Without another thought, I jumped in the water. I kicked my way to Richie, fueled by adrenaline. “Grab hold of me!” I shouted. 

    Richie gripped my belt, and I yanked his shirt free. Somehow I managed to push us toward shallow waters. But I was fighting the current. My strength was slipping away. 

    And just when I thought the river would win, I felt my toe catch on something. We were close enough to the water’s edge to stand! I pulled Richie up. We were both shaking as we climbed out of the river. My heart was pounding, but it wasn’t from fear. 

    “You’re crazy!” Richie said, coughing up a mouthful of water. 

    I patted him on the back.

    “I mean . . . thank you,” he said.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go back to camp.”

    It’s been many years since that day in the river. But I still think about it. I think about it when I’m dangling from a helicopter, being lowered into rough waters. I think about it as I swim out toward the victim. I think about it when I feel a sudden rush of fear. 

    Everyone who works in search and rescue has a story about why they do what they do. People tell us we’re crazy all the time. 

    But that’s not the way I see it.