The Great Kickboard Race

Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania.
(Often referred to as “lack of action”)

Here, nestled “in the heart of the Poconos”…
was the home of my beloved Camp Colang.

Every year, for 10 years, I would spend two months at Colang.
I LOVED summer camp.
It was perhaps the happiest time of my life.

It was at Colang that I experienced my short-lived run of being a “star”.
I was inexplicably transformed from “Robert”  into “Bobby”.
And this alter-ego, Bobby, was “one of the cool kids”.

 Bobby discovered girls and had multiple “A-list” girlfriends every season.
Bobby starred or co-starred in several camp productions,
(actually singing, dancing, acting in front of adoring (?) crowds.)
Bobby was very top camp athlete….
Super-fast runner,
Varsity-team basketball and softball,
Could more than hold his own in the variety of athletic offerings –
Tennis, Golf, Archery(??)

And then there was…
Swimming.
Not so much…
for Bobby or Robert.

I was afraid of the water.
I didn’t like getting my face wet.
Took me 10 years to pass my “deep water test”.
Somehow, whenever swimming was on the schedule…
I mysteriously developed a “cold” or “stomach ache” or some other malady.

But then came the arrival of Color War!
This was the grand finale of the summer season.
It was like the Olympics meets the Civil War.
The entire camp population was divided into two teams to compete in…
EVERYTHING!!
Friends became enemies. Enemies became friends.
The teams were represented by camp colors and had inspiring names like
Blue Spartans, Grey Martians, Blue Buccaneers, Grey Conquistadors.
“Points” were awarded and counted  for everything…
sport competitions,
team cheers,
creative presentations,
clean bunks!?!
Every team member, from the youngest camper to the counselors,
contributed to the efforts and the obsessive quest for glory!

Being an “elite” athlete
and a perceived natural born leader,
I was obviously a much–desired draft pick for any Color War team.
And I delivered!
Winning races, getting key hits, scoring big baskets…
AND writing team songs!
(An early precursor to my advertising career).

One of the final color war events was the much-anticipated
Swim Meet.
Every team member was required to participate.
(There would be no fake colds or stomach aches accepted that day).
As the team leaders tried to figure out which swimming event they could hide me in…
the 200m Butterfly was quickly eliminated…
as was any other event that required a stroke of any kind.

But then they found it.

I would be competing in something called the Kickboard Race.

For those of you who do not know what a “kickboard” is…
it is a 3’X2’ piece of Styrofoam,
rectangular-shaped, rounded at one end.
The concept of the kickboard…
was to grasp one end of the board,
and then, allow your vigorous kicking to propel you rapidly forward.

That was the concept.

 The humiliation began early.

 The contestants were announced.
I stood there as a skinny (but toned) 15-year-old,
surrounded by my competition….
a half-dozen 6-7 year olds!

There was some mock cheering as my name was called out.
The mini-Mark Spitzes eagerly dove head first into the pool to prepare.
I gingerly lowered myself into the pool,
happy and relieved that my feet touched the bottom.
With the “swimmers” backs against one end of the pool, now race-ready…
the judge shouted…

                                    ”Swimmers on your marks, get set…”

It was with the “Go” part that my trouble started.

Holding on to the Styrofoam board for dear life,
I began kicking as furiously as I could.
There was a lot of splashing…
but, alas…
no forward movement.
I mean NONE!
The best I could manage was some side-to-side rocking.
Perhaps my kickboard was defective???

Meanwhile these pint-sized piranhas were zipping across the pool.
Above the sound of splashing, I could hear the laughter and jeers growing.
Now my opponents were heading back towards me...and the finish line.
I remained in the same place,
perhaps 6 inches from my starting point.

I did not medal in the event.

As I emerged from the pool…
and my nightmare…
the mock cheering reached a fever pitch.
So…I did the only thing that I could…
I raised both arms in victory…
and triumphantly pounded my somewhat sunken chest.

Perhaps my “coolness” took a hit that day.
Or just maybe the legend of “Bobby” grew.

For those of you who know me,
(or if I should somehow meet some of my readers one day)…
I would greatly appreciate…
if the word “kickboard” never makes its way into the conversation.

Would love to hear about your athletic under-achievements and humiliation.
(Misery loves company)