“I once worked as a summer camp counselor, and I love swimming in lakes. (You might not think so, but it’s true!)”
by Karen Munro
If a kid got lost in the lake, all the counselors had to dive. They were supposed to line up an arm’s length from each other, dive to the bottom, swim a few feet, then come straight up for air. If you dove close to shore it wasn’t bad. You only had to go down a few feet. But out at the end of the dock, beneath the diving board, it was twelve or fifteen or twenty feet to the bottom. That’s what we called deep-deep.
I wasn’t a counselor. I wasn’t counselor material, especially not at Wanderwell Reformatory Boys’ Camp. I wasn’t there to reform anyone, I just wanted to get out of my mom’s basement for the summer. Bagging cream of wheat and counting bowstrings in the quartermaster’s A-frame was better than listening to my mom and Shouty Phil rampage through the house. I didn’t want to be a counselor. I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone . . . but they still made me dive.
About the Author
Karen Munro is a reader, writer, and librarian. Lately she has been trying to read more women, more people of color, more books that don’t come easily. The work continues.
She has an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and she writes stories.
Two cats, one dog. Always chocolate, never lemon. If she can bike there, she will.