Following My Father

Mom took a job as camp nurse at Kennolyn Camp in the mountains above Soquel and Capitola near Santa Cruz. In exchange for her salary, I became a camper for the whole summer. From the mountaintop, a view extends over the Pacific Ocean.

Kennolyn draws wealthy kids, whose parents can afford the high fees. There were many features not found in other camps, such as horseback riding; scuba diving; and, camping on a beach near Carmel. There I learned to ride and jump horses, became an excellent swimmer, obtained my life saving certificate. I also learned that rich kids will steal someone's homemade jacket. Mine.

We just spent three months in San Francisco at the end of my eighth grade school year, where I made two good friends. Once again, I was pulled away from friends, as well as from San Francisco, my favorite city. This, once again, made me more angry and depressed.

Mom stayed in a tiny trailer in a wooded area down the hill. She was an excellent nurse and a personable woman. Staff and campers liked her.

It was kind of weird to stay all summer, with troops of campers coming in for each session, then leaving. I didn't have much in common with most of the campers, but made friends with a 28-year-old counselor named Ken.

Ken made sure to save me a place at his dining table. This was nice for me, as I was able to avoid the discomfort of sitting with campers I really didn't know.

I kept in touch with Ken for a few years afterwards. He used to send me letters that included Peanuts cartoons. His letters followed me through Capitola to Alaska, San Francisco (again), and Menlo Park. We had a falling out when I was sixteen.

I loved horseback riding. I loved grooming the sweaty horse after he carried me during the lessons. We learned every aspect of caring for a horse -- feeding, grooming, cleaning hooves, saddle soaping the saddle and reins, making friends with him.

I even liked the smell of horse manure!

Jumping was thrilling for me. We rode English, posting instead of bumping along on the horses' backs, as is done in Western riding.

Our classes were led by an old, retired Calvary Colonel. He sported a mustache along the order of Mark Twain's, and conducted his classes strictly and demandingly.

On a ride on the mountain I made the mistake of not ducking before my horse took me under an apple tree. Man, that hurt! My eyes could have been poked out!

I also fed a calf. He was only weeks old, so cute! But he had very bad breath, so when I petted him, I held my breath.

I enjoyed swimming, and became good at it. I learned the butterfly and breast strokes, and perfected my crawl, side stroke, and scissor kick.

We also learned forward and backward dives. I became pretty good at those, too.

We were educated about what to do if caught in an undercurrent. You never want to fight one, but float along with it. It will return to shore.

When we took an excursion to the beach, I was a little embarrassed by my bathing suit, a blue, checked two-piece with a high waist. Other girls wore bikinis.

As I did at meals, I sat on a towel near Ken. Too bad I didn't feel free to wade in the water and walk along the shore. I loved the beach.

A small group of us went scuba diving in Pacific Grove, south of Monterey. We trained to breath with the tanks and paddle with fins. But when it came to diving in the cove, I became freaked out, because we swam through long, green, grass-like strands of thick seaweed that swayed with the waves.

What panicked me was that as we swam through one after the other, I lost sight of the diver before me. Being engulfed in the seaweed felt disorienting and claustrophobic.

I'm sure I would love to scuba dive in clear water, but I never had the opportunity.

We rode buses to an exclusive neighborhood south of Carmel-by-the-sea, that gorgeous and picturesque town south of Monterey. One of the camper's family owned a house there, so we had permission to camp on the private beach. I can tell you, sand is hard!

On Sunday mornings we hiked to an amphitheater in the redwoods. Beams of light fanned through the trees, as if God were there. My family was not religious, and I felt a little uneasy about praying, but I bowed my head when Mr. Caldwell, the camp director, asked us to.

I enjoyed working on a mosaic fountain at the craft's area. The process relaxed me, and the plaster felt smooth on my hands. I love colored tile, especially cobalt blue. I have ambitions to create a mosaic table top for my garden. Come to think of it, that would make a fun project to do with my little grandson's.

One day when I was working on the mosaic, I met another kid whose parent worked at the camp. He was a tall, kind of goofy-looking guy, who was awkward both in his movements and in his speech. His parents were caretakers. They lived in the forest down the mountain. I imagine they were pretty poor.

The camp was owned by the Caldwell's, whose beautiful adobe house stood with a view of the ocean. The Caldwell's made a lot of money through their camp, and/but were very nice, depending on your viewpoint. Their son worked as a counselor and taught the swimming classes.

One of the nice things about going to Kennolyn was that I met kids from many different backgrounds. At thirteen, and throughout my life, I have enjoyed getting to know people from diverse ethnic and racial groups, different socio-economic backgrounds, and various lifestyles. Moving so much afforded me the opportunity.

One of the girls I really liked was from Caracas, Venezuela. Her name was Ariane, and her beauty shone through inside and out. I never learned what her parents did.

Another girl was a tall, well-built girl from a ranch in Texas. Her father was an oil tycoon, and her mother a socialite. Her short red hair suited her. She sometimes talked about missing the ranch and her horses. She was a little horse-like herself, a fact I got the feeling was a disappointment to her mother.

A boy I befriended, who seemed to have a crush on me, was tall and slender. His family lived in an upscale neighborhood in Cupertino. I once visited him at home. I wasn't interested in him romantically, but his parents must have thought I was. They determined that my parents weren't of the proper class to for me to potentially marry their son. Good grief, we were only thirteen!

At the end of summer, and the end of camp, we campers packed up our suitcases and set them on the driveway while we ate lunch. I lay my olive green heek suede jacket I made in San Francisco over the top of mine. When I returned, my jacket was gone.

I was incensed, and also puzzled as to why a rich kid would stoop so low as to steal someone's homemade jacket.

The only thing that lifted my mood was learning my parents decided to move to Capitola, a small seaside town on the coast below the camp.

I loved the Santa Cruz area, and looked forward to starting my freshman year in Soquel High.

Our time in Capitola held many joys for me. I will talk about them in my next post: Capitola.