I spent the summer of 2009 living one hundred yards from the Pacific Ocean in what had once been a medic's shack at Meriwether Boy Scout Camp. Inside the first room of the shack were a stethoscope and other odd medical instruments which had served faithfully in their past lives, but now hung limp in the corners like skeletons of the broken hearted. One wall was completely consumed by cabinets, only half of which were available for human use because the other half were already occupied by rats, mice and various colonies of spiders. There was a working and relatively clean refrigerator and sink in this room, however, which automatically deemed it the "kitchen." The next room back in the tiny shack was occupied by two bunk-beds, generously built and donated by my father. Fortunately, these bunk beds were brand new and had not yet been defiled by previous residents, but unfortunately, they were much too large for the room, making it extremely difficult to maneuver or store an entire summer's worth of scouting paraphernalia. This was the best part of our temporary home.
The entire shack was void of insulation or drywall. Due to years and years of neglect, small holes had appeared in random spots in the walls, in the floors, in the roof. This proved to be a somewhat lethal combination. While the Portland area was a constant 95° with a slight breeze, Camp Meriwether was enjoying wind that made Chicago look quiet, somehow-wetter-than-normal rain, and solid walls of fog. The humidity was comparable to a Tahitian jungle. Even inside, it was so damp that the bath mat for the shower literally never dried throughout the entire summer. Allergens bred in that shack like the nation’s population of third graders learning their multiplication tables. Of the four girls that lived there that summer, at least one of us was sick at any given time.
To make matters worse, not only did we share our humble abode with rats, mice and various colonies of spiders, but they all seemed to think that it was theirs, rather than ours. They tried everything to evict us. They defecated on our merit badge books; they gave birth in our dirty laundry; they died as martyrs in our shower. We came to the conclusion that they were even eating more on behalf of regaining their territory; the generic size rat traps just weren’t cutting it. As a result, we had to heft in an 1806-vintage raccoon trap and set it up in the bathroom. Within 24 hours, we had caught a rat so large that it shocked even the manliest of Boy Scout Camp staff with its size. The carcass fit snugly into a size 10 male shoebox. Needless to say, the rats, mice and various colonies of spiders had nearly accomplished their goal at this point. We soon inferred that the old medic’s shack was cruel initiation for being female staff members at a Boy Scout Camp.
Week after week, day after day, we endured awkward and persistent flirting from nearly every scout that attended the camp, but we could not even escape to a warm, comfortable home at the end of the day. Despite the thousands of times that I was woken up by the scurrying of rodent feet, or suffered the worst cold of my life, or realized that my socks still weren’t dry from that time they got soaked a week ago, however, I wouldn’t trade that summer for the world. A thirty-second walk from the decrepit shack beheld a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean at its best. The beach lay untouched and private, ideal for early morning interviews with deity. The drizzling rain, which had once been miserable, now felt refreshing, washing off weeks of fatigue and frustration by simply throwing out one’s arms and letting one’s head fall back. The wind kissed the cheeks of those willing to face it. The fog, which had once been a menace, now tumbled over the cliffs of the surrounding cape in the distance like great waterfalls. This was a true escape; the magic of the moon pulling the waves seemed to drive the shack out of my mind, and consequently the shack was invisible from any point on the beach.
