Camp Tawanga

by Max Burstein

For all intensive purposes of this story some clarification is needed on a few terms and ideas:

Grundle: known by many other names such as, nifkin, gooch, and taint. This area is the small smooth stretch of skin located between a male’s testicles and his anus. Quite sensitive.

Also, it should be noted in advance that not participating in any of the following activities after having agreed to do so, or after having been bound under the “law of tradition” would result in pain and anguish much worse than what you believed you were getting out of in the first place.

Tawonga:

As a young adolescent the time came every year when school was out, summer was upon us, and my parents were more than ready to get rid of me into the welcoming hands of month-long sleep away camp. Camp Tawonga. Apparently my first year at Camp Tawonga had given such peace of mind from my everyday terrors about the house; that I saw my parents high five in the car immediately after dropping me off the next year. But I would return to the house, and besides I was off to more important mischief.

Induction/The Night:

Camp Tawonga, from the outside, appeared to be a very normal camp, even a beautiful camp. A vast acreage nestled right in the heart of the Yosemite wilderness complete with wood cabins, a lake, arts and crafts center, and everything else a good camp needs (like the pinnacle of all camp recreations, archery). However, once beyond the glossy exterior of the camp there reside many untold secrets. Secret’s many, like myself, had to find out about the hard way.

Fortunately I found myself exempt from the first and perhaps most threatening tradition of the camp, known to many as simply, The Night.

The Night revolved around three very important ideas; firstly that the youngest male campers should be subject to as much harassment as legally and ethically possible (though these lines were blurred to a point where they were essentially nonexistent). Secondly, that any form of physical harm and the psychological repercussions it may produce are absolutely hilarious and the closer that harm happens to be to your balls the more hilarious it gets. And lastly, and most importantly, beer makes everything amazing, especially when consumed in a large group of significantly underage males.

Upon arriving for the first night at camp the youngest campers are introduced to the amnesty box. A box, which we are told to put any illegal or undesirable item in. Perhaps we had thought it was a good idea to bring our nine-inch switchblade, small pile of ecstasy, or, as we had been informed, “really did happen” one year, our 9 mm semi-automatic pistol. Naturally, we would deposit such items in said box and camp would continue on its merry way. This is right when the male counselors decided it was best to strike.

I entered camp my first year as a Bunk 2 camper, meaning only that I was one tier in age above Bunk 1 and therefore I had saved myself from the torture and harassment that they were about to face. On my fourth night an hour after the lights were supposed to be turned off and my reign at Skittle fueled Egyptian Rat Screw was at it’s peek a few of the older campers quickly opened our door and told us to get over to Bunk 1. We were skeptical at first, but as many of us are prone to do when we see masses running, really…anywhere, we ran along with them. Impossibly silent, hundreds of male teens and tweens scurried through the darkness of the woods to Bunk 1 where somehow we all crammed in to watch the spectacle. As I took my place at the top bunk in the corner of the room I saw a row of pantsless 10 year olds with fear in their eyes surrounded by the majority of the male counselors each holding one to three full pitchers of beer.

“Everyone, The Night begins now!!” exclaimed one of the more hardened, bitter looking counselors. And with that a space was cleared, several pitchers of beer downed, and decks of cards passed out among the counselors. The victims, who had obviously been informed of just what was awaiting them assumed “the position”: spread eagle on the floor, face up, balls cupped and pulled back in hands, leaving only that prime and hypersensitive strip of skin, the grundle, ready and waiting. A countdown was cheered and at its end cards were sent hurtling at remarkable speed towards the young campers helpless on the floor. Uproarious laughter exploded throughout the bunk and soon beer was flowing freely to anyone and everyone. Small children were lying bloody on the floor from the spots where the cards had been hurled with such speed and accuracy that deep gashes had been made. The hilarity only increased when drunken challenges were made. One particularly precocious little man, clearly new to the world of inebriation, thought it would be a good idea to let one of the counselors take a ball shot for two weeks worth of canteen money or nothing. Cheers rang out. In the center of the bunk now stood only one skinny and quite pale little naked Irish kid. Wearing nothing but a pair of aviator sunglasses and all the confidence Miller Light can provide the moment of truth hung over the crowd. With one brutal and direct hit future lineage of the Irish instantly perished and where once stood a proud little boy was now reduced to a crumpled up naked and whimpering little boy. Only at camp.

The Bagel Run:

It sounded harmless to me too.

It’s not so much that I’m a fan of running, but I’m a fan of thinking that one run may change my whole chubby existence into a workout routine and inspire willpower. And what better to inspire such fitness than a bagel.

One of my counselors named, I kid you not, Scottie Pippen, was a nature freak and through our series of discussions had somehow convinced me that it would be a wonderful idea to go on this run he was organizing called “The Bagel Run”. Being the adventuresome and impressionable young lad I was I had agreed and Scottie made a sign up list that actually filled up pretty quickly. After signing up I forgot almost entirely about the run until the day of it’s execution. Probably just the way Scottie wanted, I had asked no questions, I simply knew I was getting up at 7 to leave for some trail head out in Yosemite.

Then the water hit me. I instantly shot up. Scottie was standing over me smiling with a now empty bucket. “It’s time, Max.” I had no time to gather my thoughts, but only to look over to my shelves and see that all my clothes were gone, apparently I would taking a jog in my tighty whities this morning. My fate, however, upon being what most people would describe as forced into the van, was not as bad as some other lucky campers who had chosen to sleep nude.

“This is the first annual Bagel Run boys, I hope you’re ready” Scottie said with a smile. “Time to go.”

“But we just left” responded one considerably clueless boy

“Well this is where you’re getting out. Good luck.”

The van pulled over at the top of the woods of Camp Tawonga. The time was now 7:45 and I found myself more than half naked surrounded by many bleary eyed campers in similar states of dress feeling very much like I should have listened to my justifiably cautious friend Brian and just “suck[ed] it up and eat the shitty oatmeal” rather than go out for the “Bagel Run”. There was little time to bother second-guessing though, I had to make it back to my cabin and get my clothes, this became my only purpose in life. We all ran like we meant it until we came to the edge of the enormous grass field that stood at the top of the girl’s bunks. “Those bastards” I thought. And then we saw a sign clearly left just for us.

“I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE BAGELS”

At this very point the faint sound of the breakfast bell rang and we saw hundreds of girls begin to spill out on the side of the field we were perched above, still somewhat hidden. “Right, they thought they’d get us all running naked in front of the girls, huh?” murmured one of my comrades. “Assholes!” chimed in another. “Well, let’s just wait until everyone’s gone, no big deal.” And that’s when we heard it coming. Three golf carts were approaching us quickly and then an opening shot was fired. Before we knew it the bagel portion of the run were being hurled at us. Stale, rock hard bagels were being thrown by the passenger seat of the carts and there was nothing left to do but run. We tried to run back the way we came, but it became increasingly obvious this is not where our counselors had intended us, nor would allow us to go. “The Lake. The Lake. The Lake!” They all yelled, while throwing little rings of starchy pain at us, and so that is where we headed. The commotion this was causing attracted the girls attention at this point and now several hundred once potential hookups were now watching us run across the field half naked, half asleep being pelted by bagels. Things only got worse once we finally approached the lake at the very end of the enormous field.

Before I go any farther it should be known this lake is more of a green swamp of algae and the crazy looking bugs that fester around the brown maybe even purplish looking water. This was much more akin to a large body of sewage water with snapping turtles and hordes of fish than what the term “lake” idyllically brings to mind.

But I digress; at the bank of the lake after the bagel reserves had been depleted we could see several boats floating dead center. Piles of clothes were heaped in each boat and once again we realized our humiliation was not going to end. As all the girls still watched on we had no choice but to dive into the murky, unholy water as all the boats we could have used were either locked up or holding our dignity. 10 excruciating minutes later I reached the boat that had my clothes in it. At this point I thought it would be a splendid idea for me to pull myself up into the boat and out of the sludge I was buried in up to my ankles. With my first heave I capsized the boat and all my clothes were soaked in evil. Needless to say I never attended, but rather enthusiastically encouraged others to go on the Bagel Run in my following years at Tawonga.