There are a lot of things in life that I look back on and think, “Well, that was a choice.” Chief among them is the time I went to scout camp in Tennessee, and, in a moment of both optimism and utter disregard for my own epidermis, decided that every single water-based activity offered was a good idea.
Now, scout camp is one of those places where parents drop off their children, wave lovingly, and drive away laughing because they know what’s coming. It’s seven days of dirt, heat, questionable food, and rites of passage that usually involve rope burns and regret. But I was young and foolish, and water seemed like a great way to beat the heat. Which, sure — until you run out of sunscreen on day one and still have six days of full sun ahead of you.
Swimming? Check.
Canoeing? You bet.
Mile swim? Because apparently I thought I was a Navy SEAL.
Lifesaving merit badge? Oh yes, because what screams “I want to survive” more than volunteering to wrestle a panicked 12-year-old in deep water while your back is actively blistering?
Let me describe the Tennessee sun for those who have never experienced it: Imagine a hairdryer set to “lava” pointed directly at your soul. Now toss in 90% humidity and the sweet, tangy scent of bug spray mixed with boy sweat. That’s the setting. And there I was, floating through it like a rotisserie chicken on a lazy Susan.
By midweek, I no longer looked like a child, I looked like a medical diagram in a warning poster. Red, cracked, flaking. My friends, to their credit (and with mild horror), would sit on either side of me in the backseat of the van on the ride home, gently peeling my skin like overcooked wallpaper. One had a bottle of aloe vera he referred to only as “The Green Savior.” The other offered scratch support. My shirt had fused to my back. I’m pretty sure I left a full imprint on the seat upholstery that summer.
The best part? I had the audacity to complain. As if it wasn’t entirely my fault for choosing every aquatic option in the hottest part of the South with SPF Nothing. I remember groaning in pain and turning to my dad and saying, “I think I need a doctor.” And he, ever the loving and supportive father, responded, “You need a brain.”
Looking back, I learned two important life lessons that week:
There’s no such thing as too much sunscreen. Don’t trust your 13-year-old self with medical decisions.
I could’ve taken pottery. I could’ve taken archery or wood carving. I could’ve done literally anything under a tree. But no, I went with “sautéed like shrimp on the bow of a canoe” as my summer memory. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Except maybe for a gallon more aloe.
Hope today’s a sunny one,
austininva
