Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming. You can also set up AMAZON SMILE so that your purchases on Amazon earn contributions to NIFTY! It's a great, zero-cost way to enhance the support you already give them.
We spent the rest of Free Period scribbling out cards until our hands cramped, which happened to be when the lunch bell clanged. It was bittersweet, terrifying and hopeful rolled into one confusing package. To think that all those guys wanted a way to keep in touch was daunting, but a little special. But the reason we needed them at all -- that we might never see these guys again -- peeled a tiny piece of my soul away with each slip I completed.
Canvas Hell 37: To Define Winning
By Bear Pup
T/T; self-discovery - Wednesday/Thursday/Friday
Archery was a surprise for everyone. As our penultimate day, the Leaders had set up a group of five targets at various distances from "why use an arrow when you can punch it" to "um, I can kinda see it if I squint." Thursday would be an actual competition with trophies for each distance and one for overall. A five-boy group would work each of the five targets with (for the sake of symmetry, I guess) five color-matched arrows apiece. Inevitably, I drew red to the amusement of everyone present except myself. Jim drew yellow, Karl drew "natural" -- arrows with unpainted shafts -- Trey pulled green and Nate got blue.
I was really surprised at our performance. Scoring was simple. The outermost-ring white was worth a point, black was worth three, blue worth five, red worth seven, gold worth nine and the bullseye at the very center of the gold was worth ten.
Some of it was fairly predictable. We started on the second-shortest range and Karl had to work hard to get his arrows out of the target. One only had an inch or so sticking out of the hard-packed straw. Trey was wild, figuratively and literally. He only had two modes: hit a bullseye (or at least the first ring) or miss the target by enough of a margin that finding his arrow was a long and complicated process. On the second-farthest, one arrow ended up in the target... two ranges over. He hit the farthest target precisely once; a bullseye. Utterly bizarre.
Nate was relatively steady and did fine for the three nearest targets, but he couldn't see well enough for the farther ones. He determined to talk to his parents about glasses as soon as camp ended. My best was the middle distance, tapering off as the targets were closer or farther away. It was pretty embarrassing that I only got one in the inner ring for the closest target. Karl put three of his five inside it (one a bullseye) and the other two in the next ring out for a score of 42, the highest round of any of us and third-highest across the whole group.
Jim, and my heart soared with each of his shots, was implacable. His aim was uncanny. He only hit one bullseye (middle distance, the only bullseye I got as well), but only once missed the target entirely. If the competition had been held that day, he would have placed second after a 17-year-old who had done archery at each of his previous camps. As a group, we came in second overall with 572. Individually, it was Jim (151), Karl (112) Trey's freakish bullseye fetish (108), me (105) and, lastly, Nate (96). He had really been holding his own until the farthest targets but those two just killed him.
With the final hunt for Trey's last arrow, we ended up late for Swimming. Sea was "less than pleased." He didn't even speak to us. He grunted and chin-pointed to the section Karl and I were to watch, relieving the two Leaders who had taken our place. Luckily, the session hadn't really started. As with Archery, today was a prep for the big race on Thursday amongst the swimmers, with four lanes laid out from the "beach" to rafts that had been anchored near the other, tree-lined shore. Leaders manned the rafts and Lifeguard men kept the shore.
You'd think that after a month of swimming lessons often arranged in nice, neat lanes, it would be a cinch compared to the days when half the guys were roughhousing. Nothing could be further from the truth once you factor in the innate and fierce competitiveness of teen boys. Karl and I had two rescues apiece for guys who pushed too hard at the wrong time and floundered before they could make the dock or shore. The Leaders of our lane had their hands full as well, and either Karl or I had to swim out and tow the raft-rescues back to the beach. We were both exhausted wrecks by the end of the session, having swum more laps than most of the competitors.
We drag-assed to the Hygiene Hut, none of the three of us even realizing that we had nothing to put on other than our sopping trunks. Boys who had Wilderness Survival, Obstacle Course and True Cross Country (running up and down the hills along curving, switch-back paths) collectively moaned and groaned through the showers. Jim was horrified by the tales of woe emanating from the Wilderness Survival group since his second-to-last session for it would be the next afternoon. Apparently, at some point on a strenuous hike, a Leader would face a medical emergency (snakebite, broken ankle, gushing wound, etc.) and the team had to diagnose, field-treat and body-carry the "victim" back to camp. Jim was paler when we left than he'd been when we entered.
We all decided on a quick nap before dinner and roused to the sound of the dinner bell. Jim's hair looked hysterical. It stood straight up on one side like a sail, Karl tossed him a tube of the goo he used on his hair and Jim began trying to tame his errant locks as Karl and I... well, as we laughed. It took about half the tube and Jim looked like he had on a shiny, plastic helmet when he was through. He was not a happy camper when we made it to the Mess Hall.
Actually, none of us were. The nap meant that we in the last quarter of the guys in the line. We looked forlornly over the steam trays to see that the fruits were a distant memory, so it was either something of Chef's or a hungry night. Option A was labeled Pot Roast. Jellified carrots and melting chunks of potatoes and onions curdled around two-inch chunks of desiccated and leather-tough mystery meat. After serious discussion, we decided it was kangaroo, mainly because it bounced if you hit it with the fork. A guy at the table behind me whispered, "D'ja think the Pot Roast would be edible with, like, some actual pot in it?" The second choice was labelled Tuna a la King. A glutinous gravy with peas and god-only-knew what else served on a slice of cold, hard toast. One of the guys whose dad was in the Army called it "SOS" or "Shit on a Shingle". We had to agree. We decided the "a la King" part explained why so many monarchs got beheaded.
Everyone at "our" table exchanged contact cards. Each one I handed over felt like peeling off a part of me, and each one I collected felt like a new weight on my shoulders, a new obligation. Jim rolled out the "sister got us phone-grounded" line which met with eyerolling approval. When Larry asked why mine didn't have a phone, I just shrugged and said, "Dad won't let me. Something about 'work'." I injected such sullen derision into the air quotes that it sailed through unquestioned. Karl stammered that he didn't do his yet, a sentiment echoed by Nate and a couple others.
Song practice was... good. The Leaders each had a "war drum" that they used to keep the relentless beat. Our brain-lock of the night before on the third lyric seemed to be easing, and the rest of the group seemed to be less-cringe-worthy than the night before. On the way back to the tent, Jim explained the two-card-type plan to Karl and he brightened noticeably. The phone number thing obviously worried him as well.
We were simply exhausted by the day, even with the midday snooze. Jim and I decided to sleep separately, and we were both in the clutches of Morpheus in moments.
Only to be roughly woken maybe thirty minutes later by a couple guys with bright flashlights. "WHU? Whozat?" and similar noises came from all three of us as the flashlights darted around the tent, blinding us.
"Um, uh!" a nervous and surprised voice sputtered to life. "We, uh, we thought we heard someone yell. You... you guys okay?"
"Jerry?" The voice was that of Jerry MacMillan, the boy who'd stumbled on me and Jim when we were snogging in the woods on Sunday. "Get that fucking light outta my eyes, man!" He did, and I saw he had two others with him. I was pretty sure both of them went to Hershey High School. "What the hell, Jerry! What's going on?"
"Apparently, nothing," said one of the others with a disgruntled look at Jerry. I was certain he was on the football squad as a sophomore, one of the only kids in that year to be on the varsity squad. Burnham or Barnum, I thought, but I couldn't place a first name. He was big, and both his mind and body were thick. His gruff and surly voice matched the overall look. "Jerry heard a shout'n we come by to check. Come on, Carter. Ya musta 'heard' wrong, Jerr. Maybe da shout it came from, uh, further back in the woods?"
It was a bald and obvious lie, and I think perhaps even meant as such, even though that level of reasoning was probably beyond Burnham's abilities. I turned my lantern to its lowest setting and saw Jim chewing his lip and Karl looking at once murderous and worried.
"Th-Th-Th-That was the guy from the clearing, wasn't it, Patrick?"
I reached out and patted Jim's hand. "Yeah." I heard the unsettled, nervous tone in my voice.
Karl growled, "He's a snake, Patrick. I could tell when I saw him watching you yesterday. Watch your back, man." He rolled over and fluffed his pillow as I stared from one of Jim's eyes to the other. I extinguished the lamp for a simple reason: I couldn't take the stress, worry and guilt I knew to haunt my own gaze reflected in Jim's deep blue eyes.
I spent a restless night between wakefulness and nightmares where people chased me or spat on me or, worst of all, dragged Jim away screaming. At least once, I was pretty sure I could hear Jim crying softly, either in sleep or awake I didn't know.
I awoke early to find a wonderland outside. The pearlescent light of pre-dawn flicked and shimmered across wisps of fog, as if I were surrounded by the blesséd dead as they danced in the Lord's light. Unlike most days, Camp Sin's dawn that Wednesday was the antithesis of my mood. It was bright and sparkling and fresh where I was shaky, dread-filled and vaguely nauseous. When he roused, Jim looked hardly better and Karl was stern-faced and dull-eyed as we made our way to the Hygiene Hut.
Breakfast did not improve matters. Next to tragically-overcooked powdered eggs were a morning analogy to pigs in a blanket. Small breakfast sausages had been wrapped in crescent-roll dough and baked. The problem should have been obvious to anyone contemplating the process: Vienna sausages and hot dogs have casings that hold the "juices" inside; breakfast sausages don't. The bottoms of the rolls therefore had marinated in the combined effluvia of moisture and grease and never cooked whilst the tops were dark and crunchy by the time the sausages were cooked. The porridge option was uniquely horrifying: Cream of Wheat with (no, I'm not kidding) cranberries mixed in. Whu? Why?!?
The coffee was actually not bad that morning. I found out that George had "accidentally" knocked over Chef's pot and volunteered to brew a replacement himself. God bless George! The cereal selection was seeing the impacts of predation, so the only thing we had to choose from was Shredded Wheat and an abomination called Quangaroos. Apparently, someone at Quaker thought pouring milk over an orange-flavored cereal was appealing. They were wrong. Jim tried the Cream of Wheat which, to be fair, was probably less-horrid than the bowel-scour of Shredded Wheat.
Canoeing was a blast. One of the four-man teams had decided they wanted to try the kayaks in turn, so we took their boat. Karl at the front, me steering, Jim and Nate in the middle. The ostensible purpose was to scout out the best fishing holes, since Friday would be the fishing competition. The rules were simple: The only fish that counted were those of edible size and species, and it was a team affair. The heaviest and longer single catch would earn individual trophies, but the real battle was boat against boat; the highest average weight per person would win. Anything caught today, of course, had to be thrown back to make it available for the actual competition.
With the power that Nate and Karl both brought to the task, we were able to roam farther afield than many of the boats. We also talked strategy. On the way to and from the site, Jim and I would spin out lures in the off-chance that some passing bass might like a snack. To our surprise, we each caught a nice-sized fish with zero effort other than keeping the lures from getting snagged. We debated several choices and ended up deciding on the deep water around a brush-pile island we'd fished at two weeks before. We'd all use different baits to start: Karl with minnows, Jim with shrimp, Nate with worms and me with lures. If anyone started getting serious action, we'd all switch to that bait.
To be honest, though, we spent the vast majority of our morning bullshitting about... nothing, everything, anything. The conversation stopper, though, was always something tied to, "next week, when we're not together anymore." The added tension that Jerry's surprise visit the night before would shut Jim down completely for several minutes anytime I saw the idea flash across his eyes. I was just as bad. Nate busted me several times for "woolgathering" and I could tell each time that both Jim and Karl understood precisely which skein of wool I was working to unravel.
We did manage to catch a few nice fish. Early on, my lures seemed to attract large bluegills who suddenly vanished completely not long after we arrived. The only one coming up consistently-empty was Jim. We decided that his battle with the trout in the first competition had spread, and that whatever fish had in lieu of campfires were awash with creepy tales of the Crustacean of Doom. Jim and Nate had a field day with that, and it led to a lively and fun conversation all the way back to the dock.
Nate almost broke a rib laughing when we got to the Mess Hell/Hole/Hall. Chef had produced fried shrimp for lunch with a side of hush puppies. Crustaceans of Doom, indeed. By the end of the meal, everyone seemed to be calling the meal fried bait as the accompanying hush puppies were, we were certain, produced from used worms. The cold option was mysteriously labeled, "Sandwich," with no qualifier. Speculation was rife (and ribald) over what the meat, cheese and most-especially sauce was composed of.
I looked up and caught the gaze of Jerry, who looked away quickly. I watched from the corner of my eye as he conferred with Burnham and the kid I was pretty sure he'd called Carter the night before. Karl caught the direction of my surreptitious survey and glanced at them, then at me and shook his head with warning.
Leatherworking was, to put it simply, a festival of panic. The Leader (Land was not there) intoned that "as we knew" it was the next-to-last chance to finish our project. That highlighted the eternal difference between what one "knows" and what one "understands". Sure, we all could count and knew the days of the week, but it was hard to translate that, especially for teens boys, into direct impacts.
While the lettering was not embellished the way I wanted, it was at least legible and complete. I thus turned my attention to punching and stitching. Since I wanted the thing to be a complete surprise, I couldn't ask for help from the other guys and got two reprimands from the Leader of, "Red! Language!" as I nearly punched a finger one time and slapped my hand down in frustration another -- onto the aforementioned punch. Regardless, I had what looked for all the world like an actual wallet by the end of the session. All of us were told to gather the tools we'd need to work on our creations in the evenings if we wanted. Yeah; we wanted.
Jim was off to Wilderness Survival, so Karl and I opted to sit at the central Fire Ring and work, I on my wallet and he on his carving. Since both of us were obviously intent on surprising the other, we basically sat back to back as we worked. It was surprisingly-companionable. I started by tightening and trimming the leather laces to "neaten" the whole thing, then set to elaborating the text of our names. When the triangle clanged to end the time-period, I thought back and was shocked at something.
In hindsight, I noticed that I'd fallen into completely different mood as I added the ornamentation to each. When I worked on Karl's name, there was a strong simplicity to the work. Jim's was breathless and Jamie (the proto-Jim) was erratic and hesitant. Nate was thoughtful and intricate where Trey (and Orson) were adventurous and exploratory.
Jim showed up about then. Wallet and tools tucked into my pockets, we made our way to Tent Canvas Hell. Jim's Wilderness Survival session was as advertised, and they'd had to "rescue" a Leader. Luckily, they'd drawn a guy named Chip who was small and funny, and his "emergency" was dehydration, one of the easy ones. Jim said he didn't even need a shower, it was that simple.
It was a nice day, so we all sat on the "porch" of Tent Canvas Hell. Jim nudged me once and I noticed Jerry "casually" walking past, peering at us. Burnham and later Carter also made sweeps where they could see into the tent. I could see Karl's jaw working in anger. The idea that I was under surveillance was both infuriating and terrifying at once. I could see a hint of actual panic in Jim's countenance as well.
"Jim? Ignore them. They're assholes. What the worst they can do, glare at us suspiciously?" Within months, I would deeply regret that question, one of the worst foreshadowings that I would ever utter.
Dinner was monumentally-offensive to about three quarters of the campers and quite satisfying for the rest. As Karl and I stared in revulsion and horror, Jim looked up and swallowed. "Whu? 'S'good!" Karl, Trey and I worked hard not to look at the plates of Jim and Nate. Chef had turned out liver and onions that, if you ate that crap, was apparently quite good.
"No, Jim. It's vile! It's, like, organs and shit!" I shuddered and took a bite of an apple that I had "liberated" from another camper. What? It was that or grainy innards stewed with onions. Fucking sue me! The cold option was quite literally unidentifiable. Guesses ranged from "Brains with Burnt Pasta Salad" to "Cold Opossum and Blackened Rice Stew." Reports were unanimous that even Nate's hot sauce didn't make it edible.
I spotted Burnham "casually" leaning against a tree as we made our way to Cabin 4 for the practice session. Practice went very well indeed, with a fairly smooth run. The jumps from one group to the next were messy, very much so, but it was clear that the final product, a mere four nights away, would be sensational -- if the other cabins were doing as well. Jim nod-pointed as we walked back to Tent Canvas Hell; another of Jerry's compatriots, one we didn't have a name for, was lounging on a pallet about halfway between the cabin and our tent. None of us spoke as we got ready for bed and slipped into our (separate) sleeping bags.
Thursday dawned bright and chilly and the thought of swimming that afternoon was far from appealing. Jerry "happened" to be in the Hygiene Hut as we showered and got ready, adding another layer of tension. I didn't even glance at the carnival of horrors Chef had prepared, heading straight for the cereal and the coffee that George had set aside for us. All that tension vanished when we got to Woodworking, to be replaced instead by panic.
This was the last Woodworking class and, as one, every boy in the group realized they had about an hour and a half to finish at least a week's worth of carving. Land, evil bastard, let that go for nearly the first hour before gently reminding us that we could still use the tools all the way to Sunday morning. One kid actually came close to fainting with relief.
Karl practically sprinted to the final session of his beloved Orientation & Cartography. Tuesday, they'd all made maps of the second of the main hills with a number of trees and rocks marked as "important" landmarks by the Leaders. Today was the test, the last chance for the guys to prove their talent. They would be given the map they'd made, appropriate tools and a set of directions that said nothing except the direction and number of feet to travel. They would be graded on where they ended up after each leg, which might or might not be a landmark. The final instruction was simple yet enigmatic. "Trust your map and your compass, not your gut."
Jim and I spent our Free Period on projects. I had very low hopes for my ring-thing, so I spent it improving my wallet. Jim worked instead on his napkin ring. It was a stunning band of twined and woven ropes, three sets of three ropes coiling through and around each other. I looked as little as possible, though, as I was instantly entranced by Jim's expression of concentration; furrowed brows, intense eyes and nimble expression. Worst, though, was the adorable tip of his tongue that stuck out one side or the other and I knew I got a fluttery and was afraid that Jerry or a minion would somehow notice -- I saw Jerry walk past, twice actually, as we sat at the Cabin 4 Fire Ring and worked.
We headed to the Mess Hall just before the triangle rang and found a stunned and worried Karl awaiting us. Jim asked, "Oh, man, Karl. Did the test go bad?" Karl just shook his head and we went inside. We decided to brave the hot entrée and were very happy we did so. The Campfire Cooking class had done ham and cheese on white bread that they then literally grilled over the campfires. They were warm and smoky and even the charred places tasted like... well, like boys having fun at camp. They were delicious.
"So what happened, Karl?"
"Well, I was really confident in my map when I started, but got less and less so as we went. All the other boys ended up right on top of the targets and I was always off by anywhere from a few yards to a dozen! The Leaders at each one just sorta smirked at me as they marked down the scores. And when I got to the end, I just sat and stared at my map for the longest time, wondering how I screwed up, you know?"
I spoke up. "Man, I'm so sorry. I know you loved that class. But just remember how much fun you had. The winning and losing thing is nothing compared to that, right?"
He looked up at me, more confused than ever. "That's the thing, Patrick. I won."
Jim's SCHNORK-hur-hur-hur rang out and I just stared between the red face of Karl and the mirth-bound Jim who finally caught his breath enough to wheeze out, "Only YOU, Karl, would be thrown by WINNING!"
We both scowled at him and turned to each other. It turned out that the landmarks WERE the test, but in the opposite way that most of the guys figured. It was so obvious that the landmark had to be the target that most of the guys had figured their maps were off. Karl and four others were the only ones that ignored the siren-song of Scylla's rocks or trees when the real target was the unappealing Charybdis of a barren spot nearby. It was cruel. It was diabolical. It was freaking brilliant. Karl had actually tied for the win, so all four of the un-fooled ended up with awards.
Overall, he and Arnie (a kid we hadn't met) were off by a NET of only forty-one feet across the entire course or about a yard off of perfect at each of the twelve targets. The Leaders confided in them that, if all three month-long camps had been combined that year, they would have tied for third among every Camp Sinner of the entire year.
Archery was amazing. Not for me, personally, but for our little band of brothers. Overall, we won as a team with an astounding 660 points where the next-highest team (which had three guys who were veterans of the Camp Sin archery program) had 599. It was, according to the Leaders, the widest margin of the year. We wouldn't find out until the next day when the final Archery session happened for those with M/W/F schedules whether we'd won the whole camp, but it seemed likely.
We also won highest round on the fifth (longest) and took third-place for both the second and middle ranges. Jim and Karl, though, were superstars. They took first and second places on the longest range; second and third on the next-shorter one; and one or the other placed in every other round. My personal best was, again, the middle distance where I tied with Jim for second place with 33 points.
Jim, of course, thrashed the entire competition, ending with an eye-popping 165. He actually came within 16 points of single-handedly overtaking the lowest-scoring team. Trey even got an award for most bullseyes with an astonishing eight on the day, accounting for 80 of his 116 total points. He was the only bullseye on the longest range and had two on the next-shorter (no one else even got one there, and Jim was one of only three to hit the gold circle at all). Nate, far from bummed at missing out on any award other than the team one, was in full hero-worship mode whenever Karl shot.
The five of us were thus in incredibly-high spirits as we got to the dock for Swimming (Jim, Nate and Trey) and Lifesaving (me and Karl). The day had started chilly but the summer sun had warmed us all to the point that the water was a cooling delight. We had far fewer rescues that afternoon as the boys had learned not to push too hard, too fast. We were still bone tired from the tension and the occasional bursts of effort required to help a boy in trouble. When the last of the results were in, Sea had a surprise for us.
"Lifesavers, stay behind. Everyone else hit the showers." A ragged cheer rang out as about half the tired swimmers dispersed, the rest staying to see what might happen next. "Men, incredible job. Every one of you lived up to my expectations, and that's high praise indeed. But it wouldn't be camp if there wasn't a competition, now would it?" We looked at each other in dread; Sea's wide smirk boded a very unhappy outcome. Nor were we disappointed. In addition to a race (neither of us placed; not even close), we had a lifesaving challenge. Each team faced something different.
The first team needed to pull a guy to the surface after he went down. Both lifeguards "drowned" when the victim dragged the first under, then did the same to the partner who came to the rescue. The second team had an "unconscious" floater who miraculously revived while being towed. Only the first responder died on that one as the resurrection happened within a pole's-reach of the dock. Next up was a "freak out", a victim that fought away from the rescuer, thinking him a threat instead of a savior. That team did a phenomenal job and was definitely set to win. We were last.
We took up positions and a Leader popped to the surface, screaming and struggling. Before either of us could yell, "Man down!" a second victim appeared twenty yards away! Karl and I shared a glance. We had nothing in any class about THIS.
I screamed "Man down!" and dove in. Just as I surfaced I saw Karl discus-throw a float-ring to the farther of the victims. I wanted to just stare in awe at the power and accuracy of his throw, but instead rushed to the nearest Leader, got him the float and rope-towed him to the dock.
Karl hollered, "Got him, Red! Get the other!" Karl had already hooked the float and was dragging the Leader in. In a flash of inspiration, I unclipped the tow rope as I reversed direction and took it with me as I swam top speed to toward the other "victim". He was bobbing and hollering and thrashing about, but had grabbed onto the ring and was smiling in a way that made me certain he would gleefully drown me as soon as I got in range.
About ten yards out, I jack-dived suddenly, disappearing from view. Before the "victim" could figure out what was going on and find a way to murder me, I'd come up underneath and clipped my tow-rope to the ring's hawser and kicked hard away. I surfaced near where I'd submerged, and the Leader squawked in surprise when the ring to which he clung started to follow me.
I'd been so focused that I didn't even realize the sounds around me. Applause, cheers and laughter erupted from the dock as Karl hooked the lead and pulled the Leader up and I pushed from below. I was stunned to find Sea laughing along with the others. "Red! I've never seen the like! You two are a hel--, um, heck of a team!" Karl and I won as much by acclamation than anything else and floated up to the showers on a tidal wave of euphoria that even the Chef's culinary abuse could not dampen.
At dinner, the Major announced a change. To make sure that all the cabins were doing well, he divided us up alphabetically. As it happened, Jim, Nate and Trey (Conner, Dardeau and Bryant) were in Cabin 1. Karl and I (Mueller and Kennedy) ended up sticking together in Cabin 3. Sadly, that put us with Jerry (MacMillan) and put our younger buds in with his two closest cohorts, Burnham and Carter.
Jerry ended up actually next to me in the low-tenor/high-baritones. He smirked and glared in a way that deeply unsettled me. He stood uncomfortably-close much of the evening, but never really said anything. Overall, the practice was a lot smoother than I had expected; the other cabins were basically as good as ours had been. The transitions were still tragic, but not so much as to threaten the final product a few nights later. Jerry stuck with me until Karl joined to walk back to Tent Canvas Hell and gave us both a snarky little wave as he moved off.
Trey's premature bass had held, so he'd ended up near both Carter and Barnham who had spent most of the time staring bullets at Jim, apparently not recognizing that Trey was in our group, muttering low. Trey told Jim he was really worried, a message that Jim relayed to us when he got to the tent. That news engendered another tense and silent bedtime, and a restless, disturbed sleep for all three of us.
By the end of breakfast the next morning, all three of us had run out of contact cards. I'd collected a horrifying twenty-six of the things, and Jim laughed at my look of dread.
We enacted Operation Fish Frenzy that morning in Canoeing & Fishing. It was cool and a little breezy and the fish were feisty. Our location proved fruitful, providing a combined haul of eleven keepers between the four of us. The big prize was certainly Nate's monster bigmouth bass, a breed that Sea tsked over since it was not a native species and was one of the reasons so many natural fish were declining. Nate's catch was well over a foot long and heavy to boot. Overall, though, he was still pleased he'd had the pike mounted as his summer trophy instead; it was prettier.
Nate ended up second in our session for largest individual catch, and our canoe took third overall for average catch. We didn't really care about winning; we just enjoyed one hell of a day on the water. The one who beat Nate for best catch had landed an absolutely-monstrous carp that took over an hour to bring in, even with Sea and two Leaders around for help and advice. Sea said it was the largest he'd seen in years, and was another invasive creature that he would love to see fished out of the Sinnemahoning. The kid was pretty-well a shoe-in for both length and weight trophies as no one expected to see something larger from the afternoon's haul.
Lunch was less-tragic than expected with hot dog and baked beans (the latter edible after marginally-sub-lethal doses of Nate's hot sauce), even though we were late to arrive as fish goo is horrible stuff to wash off your hands. Jerry's little pod of perniciousness darted glares at our whole group which, oddly, had swollen, now numbering about a fifth of the whole camp.
The idea that the only thing required to be "one of the cool kids" was to not be a complete dick has spread like wildfire. The pattern of a younger kid "adopting" an older one had become the defining characteristic of the group and, we found out long after, had led to a number of lifelong friendships. A somewhat creepy side-benefit was that anyone who hung around with our group at meals was shunned by other "boss-types", a fact that drove to us a lot of kids who'd been under their thumbs since the early days of August. Burnham, one of those bosses, muttered with Jerry, Carter and the decimated remains of his pack while staring bullets at the three ringleaders, Karl, Jim, and most-especially... me.
Like bacon, Beta Reading makes everything better. Thanks go out to Daniel, Dan, Tm and Skip for finding a lot of errors in this chapter, thus improving it for you, the reader.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 37 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 28 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 30 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Culberhouse Rules: 15 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/ Raven's Claw: 11 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/ Ashes & Dust: 8 chapters .../rural/ashes-and-dust/ Maybe Next Time: 8 chapters .../authoritarian/maybe-next-time/ Patriot UP!: 3 chapters .../authoritarian/patriot-up/